


For Laughs

by Twisted_Slinky



Series: Those Who Catch Madmen [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Criminal Minds
Genre: Complete, Criminal Minds/Batman Crossover, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the BAU wants to catch the Joker, they'll need to profile the Batman. But will all of the team survive to close the case?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Man with a Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: For Criminal Minds, this is set in the later part of Season 2, (probably between the episodes "Legacy" and "No Way Out, Part 2"); for the Nolan verse, this about half a year after the events of The Dark Knight. (Sure, these dates don't actually mesh, but meshing would mean post-Gideon, and this story wouldn't be itself without him.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Prologue**

**A Man With a Plan**

_John Dryden said, "Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide."_

His was the face of madness. Or so said the world. The man known as the Joker, quite often, disagreed.

The coal stain of grease paint across his skin bagged his eyes and lined his lids, forcing the whites around his irises to an intensity that often accompanied mock surprise. A capillary pinkness, the faint redness between those lashes, was the only hint of tiredness in his features. For another human, nearly any other human, it could have been mistaken for the swelled features of a man post-cry. But this jester's mask had never slid with tears. With sweat, with blood, yes. But not tears.

Not that he was incapable of such a thing. Why, once, he'd laughed so hard at a convulsing waitress that he'd nearly drowned in salty crocodiles. Thankfully, he hadn't been in full garb, hadn't been _himself_ , that day. Good waterproof was so _very_ hard to find.

So. Wasn't that he couldn't--he simply had no remorse for the insane. And, as he had said often enough, to the shadows of his cell, the world was chock-full of crazies, like this pig of a man, on his knees like a sinner at Church.

Now, he, piggy-pig, was certainly a crier.

The Joker licked the right corner of his mouth, following the movement with a compulsive purse of his lips. Making small talk, he tilted his head, his voice high, "You're a plumber, aren't you, Johnny?" A choked sob was his only answer. "Did you ever hear the one about the plumber and the belt salesman? No? Didn't think so."

"Anything," John pleaded. His swollen face was wet. He looked like an oil-slick, but his skin was as porous as a cement sidewalk at his pocked cheeks. A crowbar's imprint darkened the center of his forehead. He shook with terror, his chin wobbling, but managed to calm himself enough for reasoning. "Anything," he repeated, "money. I have money. There's no reason to hurt us, no reason."

The blackened blink was lazy. The Joker leaned forward, sweeping a green-stained curl behind one ear. "Tell me," he said, his voice low. A growl of anger at the back of his throat. Something had offended him. "Do I look like a man of reason to you?"

John the plumber continued to shake, but the terror was quickly replace with a freezing rage. "You bastard," he hissed, "you sick freak."

The Joker shook out his shoulders, a mock sadness across his mutilated mouth. "Johnny, I get the impression," he replied, "that you don't like my jokes."

The room's light was dim and coming from the two lamps at either side of the queen-sized bed. The mattress squeaked with the shift of the Joker's body when he pulled free a lengthy shape from his jacket. Even in that poor, yellow glow, the knife's serrated back looked like a shark's mouth.

"Johnny, I'm thinking that Melissa has a funny bone worth, uh, _tickling_." The Joker balanced the blade between three fingers, looking thoughtful. "Guess I should probably cut her open and find out."

A quick thud cut off the threat, and it came from the opposite side of the room, where the subject, Melissa, lay, hog-tied, beside her wardrobe. Face flushed red from the strain, she was still wearing the lace lined nightgown she'd retired in, and the attire was sparse enough to reveal that her middle-aged body was well toned, her haircut short and styled before bedtime for an evening of romance; and, still, not a single detail was at all attractive to the man currently casting her a glare. What did seem to spike his interest was the anger in her expression. The woman threw her head against the wood again, trying to keep the criminal's attention away from her restrained husband. Though she was sufficiently gagged, a high, demanding noise escaped the cloth.

"See," the Joker blinked, "your old lady agrees." He leaned over, giving her a wink. "Wait your turn, sweetheart."

John's eyes widened. The white cable ties holding back his arms were strained nearly to the breaking. Without the balance of two hands, he couldn't force himself to stand.

"Please, God, just, please don't--" The whimper didn't fade. It was cut off by a gurgle.

Melissa's screams remained trapped behind the tight gag and thoroughly ignored by the villain, sprayed with crimson, sitting on her new bedspread.

Twenty-two hours. Twenty-two hours, and he was at it again. Well, maybe that wasn't quite true. After all, if one counted the two guards on the way out of Arkham, the lackey who'd picked the wrong escape vehicle (Mr. Joker had clearly asked for a van, not an SUV-- the moron), the gas station attendant who'd…Alright, so, it had been twenty-two hours, and he'd slid a blade across a few too many necks. But, it was this neck, this dirty bag of bones that mattered.

The Joker smiled. A genuine expression. And tapped the business end of the knife against his lower lip. The blood blended well against his flaking make-up.

"Fun, fun," he noted, less than enthused. Releasing a heavy sigh, he kicked over John's body, and sat the dirty blade down with a muttered, "What's next?"

For the answer, he reached out, picking a heavy textbook up off of the bed. Dramatically, he flipped through its slick pages, finally coming to a dog-earred chapter to his liking. He snorted, then released a full laugh, tapping a gloved finger against the page. "Now, this," he breathed, "should be entertaining."

Melissa's courage seemed to drain at the word. Her throat moved with one final swallow.

The Joker sat the book down, its title bright white against the dark background: _Basic Criminal Profiling_. He ignored the knife and stooped down, fetching the crowbar from the floor.

He cocked his head, as joyful as a dentist with a new drill. "Let's find that funny bone."

***

"Umm, Boss?"

The lackey barely managed the question, covering the mouth of his clown mask with one hand to hold back the flood of bile. He averted his eyes from the bedroom, taking a quick step back into the hall. But he knew better than to turn away. The boss wouldn't like it.

"Boss, Grock's got the van around front, says the neighbors are gettin' curious." He finished with a choked clearing of the throat. "Wants to know where we're headed next, Boss."

The iron pulled free from the body with a sick sucking sound. The Joker tossed the tool to the side and lifted a playing card from his jacket pocket. It drifted down to land on the corpse. His tongue stroked his scar.

"Gotham."

"Boss?" The hired-hand shook his head, confused. "We just left that pit."

The Joker picked up the textbook, placing it under one arm. "Rhode Island's boring, kids. Let's head home."


	2. Chapter 1: There and Back Again, A Madman's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commissioner James Gordon needs to call in a favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 1**

**There and Back Again, A Madman's Tale**

Commissioner James Gordon let the phone drop from his fingers, Mayor Garcia's final words ringing through his ears: _"Jim, fix this. Now."_ Like so many politicians before him, Anthony Garcia had a statement and no solution. Gordon found himself staring at the files in front of him, the words a blur before his framed eyes. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his graying hair.

There was no way around this. Not this time.

The Gotham City Police Department didn't ask for help. Not from vigilantes, and sure as hell, not from the damn Feds. But Gordon had broken that first rule more than once, had a damned spotlight for the occasion, and it looked like he was going to break the second as well. And not by choice.

The Joker. Damn it if the Joker hadn't cut his way into Jim Gordon's life one too many times. Now, escaped for only a day, he'd taken another, perhaps unintentional, stab at Gordon himself. The Joker had crossed state borders. That wasn't the issue. A tired part of the commissioner had almost hoped the madman had given up his hard-on for Gotham, but no such luck. Joker had returned. To Gotham. Shot a bystander in line for a wedding dress sale. Shot her. Such a haphazard, less-than-theatrical move that Jim wouldn't have believed it if a security camera hadn't caught him.

Almost as if the Joker was simply announcing his return with the random act of violence.

Gordon shook his head, feeling his headache intensify. The return, that was where the commissioner had found himself in a bind. Again. Because of the Joker.

State borders crossed, the FBI would be making the GCPD their love nest within hours. Then the shit would really hit the fan. Of course, there was another option, one he'd mentioned to Mayor Garcia as a last resort.

Gordon pulled a card from his top drawer and picked up the phone.

The other choice was calling in the FBI himself. The right people, someone he knew. Someone who might not crucify him when it came down to the GCPD's piss-poor track record and their lack of enthusiasm in discovering the identity of a certain masked man who wasn't on the city's pay role.

He dialed the number, taking a steadying breath before a voice greeted him.

"Hello," he cleared his throat, "I'm Commissioner James Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department in New York. I'm a friend of Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan. . ."

Gordon winced, hearing the woman's follow-up question as an accusation. "Yes," he confirmed, "about the Joker."

***

Emily Prentiss closed her eyes, barely able to swallow the hot syrup pouring over her tongue. She collected herself, refusing to choke, and cleared her throat once the liquid sugar had been devoured. Cringing, she sat the cup back down on the desk, pushing it past a stack of files.

"Yup," she noted, frowning, "that one was yours."

Trying to hide his smile and failing miserably, Dr. Spencer Reid scratched the bridge of his nose before snatching his beloved cup of coffee from the reach of the dark haired woman standing in front of him. Thoughts of Prentiss germs cast aside, he raised the brim to his own lips. "You shouldn't question someone with a photographic memory, Emily."

Prentiss shook her head, almost refusing to dignify that with an answer. Almost. "The cups are the same, Spencer."

Spencer sat up a little straighter. "Actually. . ."

Emily raised a hand to stop Reid's babbling when she spotted their unit chief, Aaron Hotchner leaving his office with two of her other team members, Media Liaison Jennifer Jareau and her fellow Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan, at his heels. Though, in the past, Emily had seen J.J. speak to Hotch before bringing the team a case, she'd rarely, if ever, seen Morgan privately briefed with the two outside of the round table.

Prentiss glanced to Reid. Judging from his own scrunched brow, he was making a similar observation. He opened his mouth to voice it, but stopped when Hotch raised his chin, drawing their attention.

"We've got a case," he said, his face stony.

Without a word, Emily and Spencer rose, quickly exiting the bullpen, and noticed that Jason Gideon was approaching from behind at a scarily fast walk. The older profiler's face was set in grim determination, a deeply lined frown pressed into his low jaw. He pushed past the two of them, anxious to reach their briefing room.

"Gotham," he muttered, as if in apology. "He's back in Gotham City."

Aaron must have heard Agent Gideon's assumption, because his piercing gaze found the ex-unit chief the moment Emily closed the door. "I thought you might have been aware of the situation. The media's having a field day with the latest reports."

The doors opened again, a sheepish Garcia in a skin-tight lime-green sweater dress slipped in, quickly sliding to her favored seat. "Sir," she said, drawing Hotch's attention. She cleared her throat and straightened her red-framed glasses. "This is so not the time, but let me start by saying, I know exactly what this case is about, and, FYI, I've got a slight fear of clowns. Just thought you should know."

Hotch blinked, but decided not to fully ignore the comment. "Noted."

Gotham City. Reid's face lightened when he put the statements together. He leaned forward. "We've been called in about the Joker case?" There was an unsaid "finally" hanging in the air after the question. "They called us specifically?"

Hotch's reply was a stiff nod. He took a seat, gesturing for the others to do the same, and allowed for J.J. to take the floor.

"Earlier this morning," J.J. confirmed. She handed out the files, her slick blond ponytail bouncing behind her head as she moved. "Commissioner Jim Gordon of the GCPD contacted our office about the case. Approximately thirty hours ago, the criminal referred to as "the Joker" escaped from the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. During his escape, he killed two guards, as well as one accomplice identified as a previous patient at the asylum. He was also spotted in front of a service station before it exploded, killing the attendant. Then he disappeared from Gotham and reappeared across state lines, in Rhode Island, where he proceeded to invade the home of John and Melissa Burrows."

J.J. took a break, waiting for the team to open to the first picture in their folders. "That's what he did to the couple within a twenty minute span."

Garcia quickly raised a hand to block the picture secured in Derek's fingers. "Well, I'm officially buying another bolt for my front door."

Emily forced herself not to wince at the too-colorful, high definition image on the paper, instead closing the file with a heavy hand. "Gideon, you said he had _returned_ to Gotham." Gideon didn't response, his dark eyes wide, staring into open space in thought. Prentiss went on, "Why would he return to the city that caught him?"

Jason blinked to awareness, shaking his head. "He may not even know the answer to that question."

Morgan leaned forward, cupping one fist inside another, head lowered slightly in an unusually quiet display of submission. Finally, he opened his mouth.

"Jim," Morgan said. He stopped, correcting himself, "Commissioner Gordon thinks the… Joker has his reasons. He suspects the worst is yet to come."

The team shared a glance, not quite at the acknowledgment, but at the use of the name "the Joker." It wasn't generally how they referred to criminals, but none of them contradicted Morgan. After all, they were nearly a year late, if they'd wanted to stop the media from using the nickname.

Emily raised a brow. "You know the commissioner?"

Morgan nodded, meeting her eye, "And I believe him. Gordon has good instincts. The Joker's record shows that he's a plan-maker. This guy has a point to make. We just don't know what it is yet."

Hotch watched Morgan from the corner of his eye, observing the man's countenance, the words left unsaid in his statement. There was something more to Jim Gordon's relationship with the agent, and Hotch knew he'd have to pry the information from Derek on the way to Gotham. He tightened his jaw, turning from the man to the vision in green at his left.

"Garcia."

"Sir?" she chirped.

"We know that the Joker is the murderer, but he's still considered an Unsub. Even though he spent nearly half a year in Arkham Asylum, his true identity was never uncovered. DNA, fingerprinting, and physical comparison proved fruitless. We need his past."

She nodded, knowing the request before it left his mouth. "Unfortunately for Gotham, they don't have a me. If the Joker has another name, I'll find it, boss."

She stood, patting Morgan's shoulder in an unspoken promise, and quickly rushed from the room in a flash of blond pigtails and cotton candy perfume.

Hotch ran a hand over his tie and lifted the folder in front of him. "We'll finish the briefing in the air. Wheels up in thirty, everyone."

***

"…And that was over the past three years alone," Spencer Reid noted. "The murder rate for the decade is an all together scarier number."

"Remind me to never take a vacation to Gotham City. . ." Emily grimaced at the statistics, uncomfortable with the sinking feeling in her stomach. She had absolutely no hope that this case would be an easy in and out.

Reid took her statement to mean that he had done his job sufficiently. He paused, allowing for Morgan to interrupt. As the dark-skinned agent flipped through the papers, his voice became edged, anger sliding through to the surface.

"This doesn't add up," he snapped.

Reid turned his way, looking somewhat glum at the thought that his friend would dismiss his factoids so quickly. He quickly realized that Morgan wasn't countering the stats, but confirming their alarming size.

"We should have been here already, in Gotham. We should have been called in years ago by the local branch -- I mean, we all saw the reports a few months ago, when the hospital was hit. If we'd been called in earlier. . . And, even now, the department has been in a full manhunt for months, looking for the vigilante known as Batman. Gordon, or, hell, his predecessor, Commissioner Loeb, should have called us in earlier, before the vigilante persona devolved and murdered five people!"

Gideon cradled his chin between two fingers. "Maybe there's a reason why we weren't called."

"What reason could there possibly be?" Morgan snapped.

Sitting down her phone, J.J. stepped up behind their senior agent, a dumbfounded expression across her rosy face. "Speaking of which, according to the information I can find over the past three years, the media has their own mixed reasoning behind the Batman's existence. Articles range in opinion, from theories about a rogue cop in costume to the idea that," she paused, forcing the sarcasm out of her voice, "Batman is actually a mutant bat creature. And every press I've spoken to swings back and forth, reporters commenting that he's a menace, and then praising him as a hero when the crime rate drops. It's inconsistent, to say the least."

Morgan snorted. "The media's opinion on a vigilante is one thing. Cops are another."

J.J. raised her hands, surrendering to the discussion, and found a seat.

Gideon shrugged, but the casualness was betrayed by the carefulness of his reply. He seemed to know full well why a police department would not call the BAU. "They assumed the situation was under control. Perhaps they even appreciated the little aid a skilled man in a mask could provide them."

Morgan's eyes widened, as if the idea were ridiculous. "Gordon wouldn't fall for that. . ." Morgan paused there, releasing a baited breath. He looked like something sour had invaded his mouth. "Maybe you're right,' he began again. "Maybe Gordon didn't learn his lesson. I just find it a little hard to believe that a bunch of cops would trust a guy dressed like a flying rodent to stay in his right mind."

Reid coughed, "Actually, Morgan. . ."

With a raised hand and quick shake of his head, Morgan cut off the young doctor before he could begin his defense. Reid slumped back into his seat, defeated.

Hotch raised a brow. "Morgan," he interrupted, his voice too quiet for comfort, "is there something we should know about James Gordon?"

Morgan's nostrils flared, not in anger but aggravation. He knew at once that the emotion would be misinterpreted. "He's originally from Gotham, but I knew him from his work in Chicago."

Hotch lifted his head, a look of understanding crossing his face.

"He was a good cop back when I knew him. When we worked together. Like I said, good instincts. Good at feeling people out and getting answers from brick walls. He made Captain." Morgan cleared his throat. "I kept in contact with him off and on over the years. About five years back, the heat was turned up on him. He was booted from Chicago, practically blacklisted into going back to the Gotham PD."

"What happened?" Prentiss asked.

Morgan's lips grew thin in a grimace. He ran a hand across his smooth scalp. "Disobeyed an order during a hostage situation. He trusted his info over his superior's, and, don't get me wrong, Gordon was right. Saved the thief and the hostages. But the move cost a young cop his life. The kid was a rookie. Made a rookie mistake. It was just Gordon's rotten luck that he was also a Senator's son."

Prentiss winced. "So that's how someone ends up working at one of the most corrupt cities in the country."

An awkward silence passed over the group. Though it was and would always be a gray zone, breaking rules, dismissing a superior's orders, would always be a sore spot for the group. Made sorer still, as even Emily knew, by the all too recent dismissal of their own Elle Greenaway. The oldest among the family of profilers stared down at the files while the youngest twitched and squirmed until one of them could think of a way to get back on task.

"Gotham City has its redeeming qualities," Reid assured.

"Give me one example." Emily's eyes shot up, "And don't you dare mention the gothic architecture, Reid."

Spencer cleared his throat, frowning, as if architecture was the last thing on his mind. It hadn't been. "Well. . . The Gotham healthcare system is supposedly one of the best amongst metropolitan areas. Most of it is covered by Wayne Enterprises' Biotech and Medical divisions." Reid became more enthused when he noticed the other profilers look up in surprise. "Did you know that Wayne Medical is the country's leading researcher in cancer? And according to a recent study, they're amongst the top ten facilities researching genetics. So, what's really fascinating, is the low number of deaths due to cancer, heart disease, and obesity. A city of Gotham's size should--"

"That's depressing." Emily fought a smile at Reid's hurt expression. "Not you, Spencer. The fact that a city with that much potential is literally dying off from murder and suicides alone."

Reid found himself slumping once more against the seat. "You're right. It is depressing."

"Never fear, Garcia, Mistress of the Domain of Cyber-seers, is here," interrupted a voice.

Derek jumped at the sudden appearance of Penelope Garcia's face across his computer screen. He took a breath, finding it hard to fight the curving of his lips when he spotted her slight smile. The woman cleared her throat, shaking off her positive vibes and getting straight to business.

"Bad news folks, I've still got zip on the clown prince of crime," she explained.

Reid cocked his head. "The clown what?"

"Never mind, my lovelies," Garcia smirked, "while I have full confidence in my own abilities to track this guy's backstory across Hades or high water, it might take some time. Especially if I'm left working with medical records instead of prison records, because you all know what a pain those can be."

"Wait," Morgan mocked, "you mean to say that you, Ms. Garcia, are having trouble finding a man's last name."

Penelope winked. "I usually don't even get a first."

Hotch glanced up. "Keep trying, Garcia. In the meantime, is there any way we could find out if a person fitting the description of the vigilante known as the Batman or the Joker has appeared elsewhere in the United States? It would greatly help us to know if Gotham is their starting point, or if the two have previously perfected their... methods in another city."

"Surely you didn't just phrase that as a question, because you know I can get that done in a heartbeat." Garcia nodded, already typing on another computer.

"Quickly, Garcia."

Penelope nodded once more. "On it. Reports on any men beating up criminals while wearing a rubber suit will be with you shortly. I'm already looking for cases of carved smiles, captain, but I'll 'make it so'. The info will be faxed to the Gotham City PD for you."

The image of the woman flashed to black, the screen shrinking to show the bureau's logo across Morgan's screen.

Morgan looked up, brow scrunched. "I'm all for catching a vigilante, Hotch, but are we now considering the possibility that the Batman and the Joker might be in some way related."

"We can't rule it out yet," Aaron confirmed, "but I don't think it's likely."

Emily glanced between the two of them. "Then why ask Garcia to look into it?"

Agent Hotchner shared a quick glance with Gideon, experience sending the two of them the same signal. Hotch opened his mouth to reply, "Because, Prentiss, every hero needs a villain. There's the distinct possibility that a personality such as the Joker's chose Gotham, not because of its significance to the person he was before his injuries, but because it provided the villain he has become with the nemesis of his fantasies."


	3. Chapter 2: Profiling Profiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU arrives in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
> 
> In this chapter, I introduce Detective Stephens. You'll recall the scene in Dark Knight where the Joker asks the cop, "Want to know how many of your friends were cowards?" and later uses him as a hostage/shield? That's Stephens. I would also like to point out that I'll be introducing canon characters from the comics/cartoons, but in a style which I think is, hopefully, complimentary to Nolan's universe (yeah, I call it "Nolan-zing their storylines"). For example, I'll bring in Jeremiah Arkham.

**Chapter 2**

**Profiling, Profiled**

Sometimes, a media liaison's job could be compared to baking a cake. Put all the ingredients together, just a little of that, a pinch of this, make sure the timing was spot on, and hope that the end result was worth presenting to the world. The problem came with individual tastes: what was good to one person, was poisonous to another. As J.J. processed that the biting hiss of "gotta be shittin' me" she'd just heard was coming from the blinking cop standing in front of her, she realized that she'd just approached a walking peanut allergy. She truly hoped the comment was directed at their private plane and not the fact that she was woman nearly three decades his junior.

She stepped across the slick blacktop of the airport's icy landing pad, ignoring the flecks of water seeming to freeze on her flushed cheeks. Behind her, the other agents were stepping down from the plane, their bundled bodies tense as they prepared for Gotham's early morning breeze. Winter, as she had immediately thought, was not the best time to visit the city.

"You must be Jennifer Jareau," the police detective managed, covering up his earlier slip.

"J.J." she quickly corrected, as she had done so on the phone earlier, she assumed with the same man, a police detective that the commissioner and chief had agreed to assign to their case. When the cop spoke again, she realized the stubborn voice across the receiver and the one before were one and the same.

"Detective Teddy Stephens, Major Crimes Unit," the man greeted with a stiff nod, "Commissioner Gordon would be here himself, but as you might imagine, we're a little booked at the moment."

"Understandable, Detective Stephens. We wouldn't expect any different."

J.J. took the man's hand with her most reassuring smile plastered across her face. Still, her crystal blue eyes, as youthfully optimistic as they appeared, had already taken in several key features of their greeter. The detective's head of graying hair was ill-kempt, his shirt wearing two days of wrinkles, and his dour expression doubtful of the "experts" in front of him. He was trying, she could tell, to fake a warm professionalism, but his stern, tired gaze told her that Stephens, if not all of the GCPD, felt the involvement of the Feds was nothing more than a requirement.

Taking a barely noticeable breath, J.J. released the knot of frustration building in her chest, and eased the man forward to meet the team. It was unfortunate that Stephens' cool reception was a reaction she could recognize so easily. It would be up to her to change his mind, as well as the BAU's image with the PD, if the case was ever going to move forward.

"This is our Unit Chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," she directed, pausing after his name for a moment of recognition to pass, " and these are SSAs Jason Gideon, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and Dr. Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit." Just as she expected, Detective Stephens raised a brow at Reid's title. J.J. ignored the protective surge that rose in the form of heat to her cheeks. A cloud of warmth collected like a burst of fog in front of her face. "Detective Stephens, if transportation is ready, we'd like to get started."

Det. Stephens' welcomes were curt. "Commissioner Gordon told me to offer to take your team to the hotel to freshen up. And defrost. It's not far from the station."

Hotchner stepped forward, not bothering to give the rest of the team another glance. The man's famed hardness seemed unaffected by the falling temperature. But for those who actually knew him, his reply was especially speedy. "Actually, as Agent Jareau said, we'd like to go to the station immediately and begin the profile."

Det. Stephens nodded. "Yeah, the commish' said you'd say something like that."

Morgan shook off a small grin. "I'm sure he did," he muttered.

Stephens snorted. "How 'bout we get out of this cold, if it's all the same to you." He stepped away from the agents, leading them to the standard black SUVs awaiting them.

The agents paused before following his lead, instinctively awaiting Hotch's orders. "Reid," he noted. His piercing eyes showed a brief hesitation when he began again. "Reid, I want you to go with Gideon to Arkham. Meet with the doctors there, see what they already have on the Unsub."

Spencer bit his lip, but nodded in agreement. Asylums never quite conjured up the best of memories for him.

"And, Reid, Gideon," Hotch added, "be careful in there."

Spencer hunched forward against the chill, his lanky body Gideon's shadow as they walked toward the first SUV. Stephens gave the two a nod before they tumbled into the vehicle, and the detective turned back to the remaining team members.

"Morgan," Hotch said, "due to your history, I'd like for you to be with me when we meet Commissioner Gordon, but we need to see the scene in Rhode Island. It's important that we know why the Joker made the detour out of the city before returning. What was the importance, destination or victims? Prentiss."

Emily was already nodding. As the newest member of the team, Prentiss had an infectious willingness that Hotch was quickly growing used to. And reliant upon.

"It'll take a few hours to get there," Emily replied, "but I can check out the house, the bodies of the victims too, if they're done processing. I'm sure Garcia's already running a background on the couple to look for ties to Gotham."

Det. Stephens stepped up. "I'll go with her. It's not quite in my jurisdiction, I know, but I got a buddy in Rhode Island who'll make sure everything's kosher. Fact is, that's the main reason the Commissioner sent my butt out here in the first place." He bounced his brow, as if to note that he thought Gordon was full of it, before turning to Emily. "Agent Prentiss, we can take the next ferry over. Figured you might like that, since we're guessing that's how the Joker got to Rhode Island so quickly."

"Good," Hotch agreed, turning to insure that Emily had agreed. "Check in when you arrive. The rest of us will be at Headquarters."

***

The boat ride to the small island had left Reid feeling nauseous, but he somehow doubted the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach had anything to do with the choppy water. He had read about the area called The Narrows, and knew for a fact that it had been proclaimed unlivable over the past few years, the buildings nearly destroyed by a riot that had ended with the entirety of the island being surrounded by a tall fence and more guards than almost any high-security prison he had ever visited.

Gray and foreboding, not unlike the majority of the mainland that had left it behind, the island was its own fortress of steel and stone and waiting eyes just beyond the shadows. Reid knew that last part was his imagination. The prisoners. . .the patients were in rooms, locked away, secure and being treated by a highly trained staff of doctors. Being guarded by an army of well armed civil servants.

_Yet._

Reid could still feel the bile creeping up his throat as threatening acid fingers. An antacid would have been heavenly at the moment. The young agent couldn't quite put his finger on why the asylum's monstrous size was bothering him so. Then he recalled their reason for visiting: the Joker had escaped this place. He had been damaged enough to be cast out of society and locked away on this God-forsaken island. And then he had managed to pass through the hospital, the prison, itself, out of the area that had once been The Narrows, past men with guns, past the dogs being walked along its perimeter. Past the freezing cold waters.

One man had done that. One madman.

The "mad" was important, Reid knew. Without it, if simply a man, the actions might have been more predictable. Escape. Freedom. Run. Instead, the Joker had made it to the city, sought some mediocre vengeance one sliced cheek at a time, before taking a day trip to Rhode Island.

Reid stepped into the foyer of Arkham's main building, and stared down its gray and white floors at the lab coats and uniforms. He smelled the staleness of the place, heard the faintest sound of shouting, even though the inmates were some distance away. There was no doubt in his mind, a sane man would have left the state as quickly as possible, would never have returned for fear of this very hallway. But a mad man. . . Well, apparently a madman would return.

Reid felt the eyes again. But this time he knew they were real and not from behind barred windows. He shot Gideon a small smile, hoping to end the man's intense stare. It didn't.

"Reid?"

Gideon asked many questions in that single word: _are you okay? Can you do your job? Do I need to send you away?_

Reid wasn't sure how to reply. He resisted the urge to rub his forearm.

He wasn't a very good liar, especially when it came to his team. He chewed his bottom lip, happy to hear the approaching footsteps of a man in a brown suit. The doctor was dark skinned, perhaps bi-racial, his hair short and fading to a toffee hue, and his constant blink that of a man under verbal assault, though, as of yet, neither of the agents had spoken.

"Agent Gideon," he breathed. The name sounded painful coming from between his lips. He swallowed down his anxiousness enough for introductions. "I wish we were meeting under better terms. I'm Arkham's medical director, Dr. Harrison Thomas, and I'll be more than pleased to take any of your questions."

Gideon's brow wrinkled in a false expression of surprise. "I understood that the Administrator, a Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, would be greeting us today. Was I wrong?"

Dr. Thomas's blink had returned at full force. "Dr. Arkham was called away for a meeting, unfortunately. He would have liked to have dealt personally with this unfortunate situation."

"Unfortunate situation?" Jason asked, a chiding grin on his face. "Is that how Administrator Arkham refers to the escape of an inmate, Dr. Thomas?"

"He- no- we take this very, very seriously, Agent Gideon." A bead of sweat ran down Dr. Thomas's temple. Frustration took his breath and words, and he paused to collect himself. "We're doing everything possible to find out how the patient escaped and insure that it never happens again. I assure you, Agent, we run a very tight ship."

"I'm sure." Gideon nodded slightly, allowing the statement to pass, before adding, "Unlike your predecessor."

Dr. Thomas's brown flesh ashened almost immediately.

Reid straightened, resisting the urge to spout out all that he had read on the fiasco that had taken place almost three years ago, when Arkham's then director, Dr. Jonathan Crane's less than legal pastimes had come to light. It had been a bit of knowledge that he'd been eager to share on the short plane ride to Gotham, and likely the reason why Hotch had sent Spencer with Gideon to this hellish island. The escape of the Joker was not the first stain on Arkham's very peculiar history, and neither was the mad clown the only prisoner to escape. With this fresh on his mind, Reid was not surprised that Gideon had decided to approached the anxious Dr. Thomas with an aggressive tactic. Though, he felt that, perhaps, Gideon had some other reason for his behavior. His cool expression was too genuine. Reid understood why soon enough.

"I recall," Dr. Thomas said, attempting to regain his confidence, "that your unit made a previous request with the hospital."

"Several," Gideon corrected. "For interviews with your patients. Both before and after Dr. Crane left his office and you took his position."

"Yes," Dr. Thomas accepted, "as I said, we run a tight ship. The proper paper work. . ."

"It's very hard to gain access to the inmates here, Dr. Thomas," Gideon interrupted. He gave a short laugh, as if in confusion. "It seems it's somewhat easier for inmates to gain access to the outside world."

Dr. Thomas's thick lips formed a tight line. "I'm afraid I don't share your sense of humor, Agent Gideon."

Gideon shook his head. "I'm sorry for that," though the apology was lost with his mocking smile. "The Joker was an important patient. You were his lead doctor, I assume." Gideon didn't wait for his reply, already knowing the answer. "Dr. Reid needs to review your notes and ask you a few questions."

Another blink. "But I. . ."

Gideon stopped him. "While I speak to the co-workers of the dead guards in your employment. You won't mind, will you, Dr. Thomas? If a federal agent gets a look at your facility?"

Dr. Thomas's jaw twitched. "Very well." He flared his nostrils before waving his hand out for Dr. Reid. "My office is this way, Dr. Reid."

Reid followed, pausing once to look over his shoulder. He saw Gideon's expression, one of clear contempt and satisfaction, and raised a questioning brow. One didn't have to be a lip-reader to understand the word "later" on the tip of the other man's tongue. Reid nodded in reply, and turned back to meet Dr. Thomas's quick steps as they sped further into the heart of the asylum.

***

"Productive evening?" Alfred asked, blinking his heavy, lidded eyes at the man in front of him.

Bruce cheek didn't so much as twitch. He slid on a fresh shirt and stretched out his fingers. Tiny scrapes marked his knuckles, but none of them had busted. There would be no need for the embarrassing, if somewhat necessary, task of applying makeup to hide the small wounds. Thankfully, the gloves of the Batsuit had, for the most part, absorbed the force of the punches he had delivered. Bruce would have to thank Lucius for the extra padding the engineer had installed upon the suit's last renovations.

Alfred took the silence for what it was, exhaustion, and sat the platter of brunch down upon a small table. If he had assumed that the completion of the rebuilt Wayne Manor would make his morning habit of searching for Master Wayne somewhat easier, he was mistaken. The security in the caves had been doubled to insure that they were not discovered, which also meant breakfast was nearly always cold by the time it arrived to a sleepless and scrappy Bruce Wayne.

Not that the temperature of the meal ever really mattered to Bruce. It was simply a professional note on his abilities to do his job that Alfred had yet to work past. "I hear," Alfred said, breaking the silence once more, "that Gotham has been so fortune as to draw the attention of the FBI."

This grabbed Bruce, but it wasn't surprise but, instead, alertness widening his expression when he turned to his oldest friend. "Not just the FBI, Alfred, the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Profilers. Good ones."

"Do I detect a hint of professional admiration?" Alfred asked. "Because I should be detecting worry instead. If I'm not mistaken, Profilers are known for finding normal looking people with dark secrets and second lives. Sound familiar?"

Bruce frowned. "I'm not taking this lightly, Alfred."

"Are you certain of that?"

Bruce ran a hand across his face, wishing to release the pressure there. He'd told himself that his concern with the FBI was selfish. There were bigger fish. Bigger, clown painted fish who were cutting their way through the population of Gotham with a sharp knife. If there was some chance, he'd told himself, some small chance that these outsiders might find something he hadn't. . . But, as much as Bruce reassured himself that he didn't mind the sacrifice, that their focus would be the scarred madman and not the masked one, he couldn't help the gnawing bundle of snakes in the pit of his stomach.

He'd researched this team. He knew their track record. And he also knew that one slip-up would be enough to get him on their radar.

"I'm certain," Bruce assured.

Alfred raised a brow, snorting lightly. His crisp English accent had bite. "It might be somewhat difficult for Bruce Wayne to avoid an unnecessary meeting with a group of G-men on a clown scavenger hunt throughout the city."

"On the contrary, Alfred. They're staying at the Menagerie Suites."

The manservant tilted his head, a small smile glistening from his blue eyes. "The hotel you bought last month?"

"The very same." Bruce buttoned his shirt, crisp, ivory, and expensive, and selected a belt that _didn't_ come with its own First Aid kit. He brushed back his shower-slick hair with long fingers. "In fact, I have feeling that Bruce Wayne might accidentally bump into a government agent before the day is up."

***

"Jim Gordon."

Commissioner Gordon paused, muttered an excuse to his wife--because he refused to say she was anything less, no matter what her eyes, what her silence, implied of late--and sat down the phone with a shake of his head. He hadn't heard the ajar office door open, but the voice hadn't scared him. One too many quiet visits from the Batman had kept him from reaching for a weapon.

When he looked up, he wasn't surprised to see Derek Morgan standing in the doorway.

"Hey there, kid," Jim said, the ghost of a smile beneath his mustache. He stood, stepping around his cluttered desk with a long stride. "Heard I'm supposed to call you Supervisory Special Agent now. Guess it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

He reached out, instinct letting him take the other man's hand without hesitation. Kid, he knew, wasn't the right nickname for Derek, never really had been, as the two hadn't been that far apart in years. Though, Derek, it would appear, sure as hell held together better.

The thought made Jim cough to hide a chuckle.

"Years. Wish this was under better terms," Agent Morgan said. An unvoiced agreement lined Jim's gaze. "My unit chief would like to get us set up as soon as possible. Do you have an area we could use?"

Jim nodded, looking abashed, "Of course, of course. I should have been up front to meet you. You might've heard, we remodeled recently. Got a briefing room that we've cleared for your team to use. Few computers, a board. Got the files brought in for you already."

Derek nodded in thanks. "Remodeled, huh? The Joker's work, as I understand."

Jim paused, letting a weighty silence gather between them. He cocked his head up, somehow managing to look down his glasses at the tall agent. The commissioner released a sigh.

"There a reason why your boss sent you in here first? Could have knocked himself, if he'd wanted. Seems the proper thing to do." Jim watched for Derek's reaction, already knowing the real reason. His team had sent him in first to soften the commissioner's defenses. Jim had thought maybe, just maybe, that the profilers would be too concerned with their target, the Joker, to question Jim's actions over the past few years. Derek's almost unnoticeable wince told Jim he had no such luck.

"I told Agent Hotchner, told my team, we were friends. They asked about Chicago."

Jim broke eye contact, resisting the urge to chew his lip. "Suppose that was necessary. Not much to tell, really."

Derek shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't call, man. I should have done something. When we worked together, Detective Gordinski was constantly on my ass, but you had my back. I should have had yours."

"Nothing you could do, kid," Jim breathed. "You weren't in the department. And I did break regulations. Got the rookie killed." He cleared his throat, patting the agent on the shoulder. "That's the past, Derek. I wouldn't hold a few missed phone calls against you. The important thing is that you're here for my city."

Derek wasn't sure how to accept the gratitude. He stared down at the desk behind the commissioner, spotting a file. "That on Batman?"

Jim sounded a confirmation, his body language asking the agent to show him the door. Instead, Derek stayed planted. "How's the search going?"

"That's. . ." Gordon tripped over the reply and hoped Derek hadn't noticed. "Not important," he finally finished. "We have bigger problems. Like the Joker. Let's get your team settled."

Jim slipped past the man, out the door, the sound of his greeting with Agent Hotchner echoing past the frame, but Derek had a hard time pulling his eyes from the top of the file. He knew Jim well. They may have been distant over the past decade or so, but that didn't mean Morgan couldn't tell when the man was uncomfortable. And Jim Gordon was definitely uncomfortable with the mention of Batman.

There was a reason, Derek was certain, and he was determined to uncover it.


	4. Chapter 3: Encounters of the Like Minded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU gets to work on their profile, and the Joker makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 3**

**Encounters of the Like-Minded**

Reid stomach was too upset to mourn the loss of a lunch he'd never get a chance to see. What he did miss were his morning hours, most of which he'd spent in an interview with Dr. Harrison Thomas, director of medicine for Arkham Asylum. Reid was aggravated with the results of the meeting. He'd been briefed on the Joker's psychological state, shown surprisingly average medical charts, and told that the hospital had no recordings of the psychiatrist's meetings with the patient available.

And though Reid didn't feel it was necessary to say it aloud, he disagreed with Dr. Thomas's diagnosis almost entirely. Finally, _finally_ , Reid had managed to separate himself from the doctor. He only hoped that Gideon's tour of the facility and his conversations with the guards had proved more valuable.

His pace quickening to outmatch that of the brick-wall of an orderly escorting him out of the office area, Reid pulled free his phone. "I'll just be a moment," he told the other man.

The orderly growled in response, taking a step back. Reid shot the man a nervous glance. He was suddenly extremely pleased with the facility in which his mother was housed. If he'd ever seen the buzz-cut giant's scowl at Bennington Sanitarium, he would transferred her immediately.

Reid pressed talk. Garcia answered in one ring.

"Oh, my genius boy wonder, if you're calling for the answer to the life, the universe, and everything..."

"Forty-two," Spencer quickly replied.

"Brava," Garcia cheered. Reid could almost see her bright grin over the phone. "Yes, _that_ we know, however, what we don't know is who the elusive and extremely scary Joker really is."

Reid stretched the fingers of his free hand. "Unfortunately, we're still at a loss here. However, I think we can rule out a few of our initial assumptions. You can quit searching psychiatric hospitals and medical hospitals for men admitted with severe facial wounds. At least for _his_ name. You're likely to only find his victims."

"Why the sudden rule out?"

Reid spotted the growling orderly, and turned his back, hunching slight and lowering his voice. "After reviewing Arkham's files on the Joker, I don't think he's ever been treated in a psychiatric facility before now. Based on victim descriptions, I had assumed that the oral ticks mentioned in most accounts might be tardive dyskinesia, a side effect of some anti-psychotics, but upon further reexamining the accounts, I think the lip and tongue movements were due entirely to the scars themselves."

"He has chapped lips?" Garcia ventured. "Or maybe his makeup is flavored."

Reid paused, refusing to consider that possibility, and went on. "Have you ever cut your lip before, particularly at the corner of your mouth? One develops the habit of licking the scab. Which leads me to the reason why I think the medical records might be useless...Did you get a look at his wounds?"

"Sorta wish I hadn't."

"They weren't professionally treated," Reid continued, flicking his hand in anticipation, "and they were extensive. They likely took a long time to heal, which is why he developed the habit of licking them. That, and the deformity probably made it hard for him to contain his saliva."

Garcia took an anxious breath. "Spencer. _My lovely._ " She paused, as if collecting herself. "Promise me that, if you find yourself face to face with the evil clown, you won't mention that he has a drooling problem."

Reid blinked, pulling the phone away in confusion. "Um, I won't," he replied. Before he could continue, he spotted a familiar face at the end of the hall. Gideon approached at his quick, busy speed, a grim expression on his lined mouth. Reid cleared his throat. "Garcia, I've got to let you go," he rattled, quickly closing the phone.

Gideon raised a hand to stop Reid from saying whatever was on the tip of his tongue. "We need to get to the police department."

"We have a profile?" Reid asked.

"We do," Gideon quickly replied, "but it's not the one the police need to hear. We need to profile the Joker's obsession. Hotch was right about a connection. The Batman is the Joker's main focus. In order to find the villain, we're going to need to profile the vigilante."

***

Victor Zsasz didn't wear the shadows but the faintly ruddy light above the back booth. It glimmered off his slick, closely shaven head, off the lips hid between a thin beard and mustache as he licked them clean. No, it wasn't true what they said: monsters didn't always hide in wait, didn't feel the need to stay in closets and alleyways. So the police wanted him, so the Bat was still taking out petty criminals. Didn't matter. Zsasz had went unnoticed over the past two years. Almost as if some divine being was protecting him from his enemies.

At first, he'd traveled, went far and wide looking for work that catered to his particular…interests, but he'd come back here in the end. To this waste pool. To this toilet of a city. Because, if you wanted to clean house, it was best to start where the grime was thickest.

For the past week, his focus had been the pretty waitress at the opposite side of the bar. Pretty, yes. Young, yes. Just like he preferred them. But, most importantly, she was dead. Inside, at least.

A zombie. A useless shuffling form, moving like a fly over meat in some vain attempt to fill her short lifespan with busy work.

A little talk got him far. He'd found out she was a student. At least, that's what she told the world. The fact was, she had put off going to school. Mom's medical expenses. A bad breakup. A lack of funds. Her excuses piled up. The truth was, the dream had died years ago. Now she was just another empty Gothamite. An insect that provided nothing but an annoying buzz by which he could track her.

Zsasz would take her soon, liberate her from her poor excuse for an existence. She would be thankful when his knife met her. She would…

"Not really my type, but I suppose, uh, what do they say?" At least one monster did keep to the shadows. The Joker stepped out from behind Zsasz, causing the man to bounce against the booth's maroon cushion. Victor's body stiffened, ready to go to blows, but he shot the rest of the nearly-empty dive a glance, saw that the arrival of the clown had gone unnoticed, and decided not to draw attention.

The Joker dropped a corpse down into the seat opposite, pushing the body up against the wall, and scooting in beside it. If the outfit was anything to judge from, the corpse had been washing dishes in the back. Another useless zombie.

"Joker," Zsasz breathed, popping his jaw out of habit.

"Ah," the Joker said, leaning forward. Green stained curls fell over the white paint on his forehead. "I remember now-- to each their own." He licked his lip, adjusted the cuffs of his purple jacket, and leaned back in wait. "Well, Mr. Zsasz, don't you want to know why I'm here? I'll give you a clue: it's not for the eggs. Get enough of those when I try to tell a joke."

Victor didn't find any humor in the statement. "You got a job opening?"

"We've got a lot in common, Mr. Zsasz." He pulled Zsasz's Scotch from the table, taking a sip. Joker made a sour face and sat the drink back down. "Tastes not withstanding, uh, we've both visited the lovely facility in the Narrows. We both, uh, know the value of a well sharpened knife…" He paused, brow scrunched in thought, then shrugged. "Well maybe not 'a lot' in common, but I'm fairly sure neither of us have a great love for the Gotham City Police Department…or for the Batman."

Zsasz grew taller, his cheeks almost shaking in rage. "I work for a living."

The Joker laughed, a low, throaty noise that was devoid of any real pleasure. "You like to pose them, don't you, Victor--mind if I call you Victor? Pose them like they're doing their daily jobs. It's sort of a calling card of yours. Like the scars beneath your shirt. Me?" He twisted his wrist and a card jumped to his finger tips. "Me, I'm more literal." He sat the Joker's card down on the table.

Zsasz opened his mouth again, and the Joker raised a hand to stop him. "Yes, yes. You work for a living. Got it. Another thing we have in common: we don't do things for free. Well, not unless they're really, really fun." He tipped his head, pointing out the waitress in the background. She'd stopped to buff a table. "That's why I brought a little incentive."

The Joker reached into the front of his jacket and pulled free a wad of green. He tapped the chunk of bills against the tabletop. "To answer your question, Victor. I _am_ hiring."

Fingers reached out for the money, but it was pulled out of reach by one gloved hand. The Joker wagged a finger.

"What do you want?" Zsasz asked.

The Joker's scars twisted into a wider smile. "Victor, I want you to keep doing what you do best."

***

Emily Prentiss was radiating with frustration. As much as she would have preferred to hide it, she felt that a little emotional honesty was just what Detective Stephens needed to understand that she, her team, was committed to the case. So she let it show, on her face, in the tightness of her jaw, the forced wideness of her gaze. It echoed Stephens' own, though the man, it seemed, looked as if he was more prepared for blow.

Rhode Island had left them with nothing. They'd been forwarded the info from Garcia. That the couple had no ties to Gotham, the Joker, illegal activities. They were just two people tucking in for the night. Slaughtered in their own home.

Sadly, it wasn't something entirely new to Emily. Still, she had went in with the hope that the Joker had left behind some clue as to why he'd made the short trip over state lines and back again. Nothing had turned up, though, not a reason. Not a motive.

And the way he'd killed the couple…If Emily hadn't known better, she would have suspected that the Joker had been throwing darts at a profiling handbook, picking both the most depraved and mundane forms of ending a life. She'd known he was a sadist going it--the way he enjoyed carving his victim's faces to match his own, but the seeing the scene, and then the bodies, had put things into a vivid, new-to-techno-color perspective.

"Maybe the rest of your team had more luck," Stephens suggested.

Emily blinked, surprised by the comment. The man's quiet annoyance had been clear throughout their visit, so his comforting words seemed almost out of place. Emily was glad that she'd gotten to him. Sometimes it was hard to win local law enforcement over to the BAU's way of investigating.

"I hope so," Prentiss agreed. She turned away from the view of Gotham. The ferry was approaching the mainland, would be pulling into the dock in minutes. "Still, what we didn't find might be of more help than we think."

"You think he had a reason for what he did?" the detective asked.

Emily rolled the question around her mind before answering. "Absolutely. Insanity isn't without reason. The logic is just lost to those of us of a saner persuasion."

Stephens chuckled. "Glad you think so," he said. "Department thinks crazy is crazy. Thinks he's unpredictable. Me? Not so much."

Emily raised a brow.

"I had a run-in with the Joker, first time we caught him." Stephens leaned against the railing, watching the gray, cold skyscape. "I was an idiot. Gotta watch the clown. He sounds nuts, he _is_ nuts, but he's got a plan. Got me pissed at him, got me stupid angry. I got sloppy and ended up taken hostage. All so he could make a phone call." The man gave Prentiss a hard glance. "Stupid. Cause they gave him a phone. Thought he was nuts. Turns out..."

"The planted bomb in the holding cell," Emily finished. She'd seen that much in the file.

Stephens nodded. His expression was somber. "So, when the guys in the Unit say he's just killing to kill, I gotta say, I don't believe it. The Joker has a reason. Might not make sense to us, but it's there."

Agent Prentiss's gaze narrowed at the view of the dank city. A light snow had begun to fall. Her brow wrinkled in thought. "Detective Stephens, why did Commissioner Gordon call us in now? He could have done so the last time the Joker was at large. Or a day ago, when the escape took place. But he waited until the Burrows were murdered."

Stephens' initial look of confusion was wiped away. His eyes widened. "The commish' called you in because…"

"He had to," Prentiss finished. She pulled free her cell phone, dialing Hotch's number without a second thought. At the answer, she gave Stephens one final glance, speaking to both men at once. "The Joker, I know why he crossed state lines. The FBI. He wanted us involved."

***

Hotch had long since pocketed his cell phone, but Emily's words rang clearly through his ears. He stood, a statue with arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes steady and near black as they absorbed the information on the board in front of him. Behind him, light chatter sounded, Morgan and Gordon bouncing ideas off of one another. J.J. was doing her job, forming a relationship with the local media, because it was going to be needed, of that Hotch was certain. The Joker's death tally was not at a rest. There would be more victims.

Gideon and Reid were on their way, as was Prentiss and her detective escort, Stephens. They would be there in minutes, he was sure, but every second in wait seemed to last hours. Hotch needed his team. Because they were stronger together, the holes in theories discovered, the gaps smoothly filled in as each member pulled their weight.

"Textbook antisocial PD. It comes with its own dose of narcissism, but from what you've told us, the Joker's on a whole 'nother level. Definitely a narcissistic personality disorder…" Morgan rattled, answering the question Gordon had posed.

Hotch suddenly became aware of the room, turning to Gordon with a thin lipped frown. "It's not necessary for you to be here right now, Commissioner. We're aware that a man of your title has more responsibilities. I'm sure Detective Stephens will be able to provide the assistance that we require."

Jim smirked, looking up with a brief cock of his head. "Do you know how I got that title, Agent Hotchner? The Joker killed the last commissioner, and the mayor appointed me to take care of the problem." He stood, pushing away the papers scattered over the table. "Now, my job, my only job, is to protect this city. Save it. And to do that, we need to catch the Joker. Anything else can wait. This is my only responsibility at the moment."

Hotch nodded, stiffly. Whatever reply he had slipped away when the briefing room's doors opened. Gideon and Reid stepped through, Prentiss and Detective Stephens close behind. Hotch released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Gordon forgotten for the moment.

"Good," he said, seeing Gideon's focused gaze. "Prentiss, Gideon, both of you briefed me over the phone, but it's time we put our cards on the table. Emily, I'd like you to tell the others what you observed at the Burrows."

"The Joker left nothing substantial behind, and there were no obvious ties between the couple and the city of Gotham. What remained was the option that the victims weren't chosen because of victimology but because of their location. After discussing the Joker's past actions with Detective Stephens here, we came to the conclusion that the Joker chose the location of his crime because of the cross in jurisdictions."

Morgan stood up, Reid quickly swiping the seat closest to the man. Hotch hadn't shared his conversations with the group, not yet, because he'd quickly realized how right both Gideon and Prentiss were. He simply needed his team to put the information together.

"Wait," Morgan interrupted, "he killed the Burrows to gain the attention of another police department." Derek seemed to hear his own words and quickly picked up on the unspoken statement in Prentiss's explanation. "Not just another PD," he concluded, "but the feds. He knew the FBI would be called in or Gordon would be forced to contact us."

"Perhaps not specifically our team, but he definitely wanted the attention of more than the GCPD. He's making a statement against Gotham, trying to draw attention to the city," Prentiss finished.

Gideon shook his head. The senior agent had found his own seat and was leaning back. "But for attention alone?" he shrugged. "No, not this man. He has a point of view he needs the world to see, yes, but he's after more than national news coverage."

"Point of view?" Stephens questioned. "What's he trying to prove?"

Gideon shot him a look. "You already know the answer to that, Detective Stephens. I'm sure he made himself very clear last time he was in this precinct." The agent frowned, his chin doubled with the deep gesture lines of his face. "We're animals. People are animals. Chaos is our nature, and he wants to bring it forth. Normal life, the social structure we've created, is a façade to hide our true form. The Joker's intent is to prove to the world that they're no different than he is."

"He was very upfront with his opinion, based on his actions and the observations the doctors at Arkham provided," Reid agreed. His voice was raised with the sudden need to explain. "In fact, in the Joker's own words during one session, he explained that most his crimes were simply social experiments. He favors these experiments over actually murdering his victims. The Joker gets an almost orgasmic thrill over watching people kill one another because it proves, as Gideon said, that humans are animalistic when their own lives are at stake."

Gordon ran his fingers over his mustache. "How did killing the Burrows help him prove a point, though? Did he have them make some sort of choice?"

"There wasn't any evidence of that," Prentiss supplied.

"No, there wouldn't be," Hotch replied. He uncrossed his arms, moving back to the board, examining photos of the victims. The team seemed to realize what his conclusion was, but Gordon only stared up.

Reid nodded in agreement with the silence and opened is mouth to explain. "That's the clue," he said. "The fact that the Joker didn't make a point with their murderers tells us something. Either he's had a full psychotic break and began a spree, or he killed to set up a new experiment. A new game. Probably one in which _we're_ the game pieces. Under the assumption that he crossed states to bring the FBI into your city…well, I'd say the latter was more likely, wouldn't you?"

Gordon felt sick to his stomach. "He's setting the city up for something, isn't he?"

Morgan's brow was wrinkled, his eyes closed, as if in a quick prayer, which his team knew wasn't the case. "This man," he began, opening his eyes again. Unfortunately the room, the situation, remained the same, "the Joker isn't as impulsive as he first appears. His actions, his makeup and costume, it's designed to convince his victims, his lackeys, us, that he's an unpredictable wack-job. That he's anything but predictable."

"He has a plan," Stephens muttered.

Morgan nodded in response, but his eyes didn't leave the commissioner. "This puts his adversaries on edge, but it's a lie to cover up his intentions. He's an organized killer who's pretending to be disorganized for our sake."

"And he learned the behavior," Gideon said. "The costume, the persona. To invoke fear. There's another person in Gotham who does the very same, and it's very likely that the Joker put on his clown make-up after hearing about his inspiration for the first time."

Commissioner Gordon's face paled at the implication.

"Batman," Reid answered.

Jim felt as though he were swallowing cotton, and judging from Morgan's expression, his reaction to the name hadn't gone unnoticed. Still, Jim couldn't stop himself: "The Batman has nothing to do with this case. This is about the Joker."

"On the contrary. I'm afraid that, in the Joker's mind, Batman has something to do with everything that goes on in Gotham City. In turn, coming back to Gotham, refusing to run, tells us that Batman is somehow involved in his plans."

"You're pulling that out of your ass," Gordon scoffed. "Joker's got a grudge against this city, sure, and that vigilante is a part of it. Finding Batman's on my list, gentlemen, but there's not a bit of evidence that the Joker's focus is on him. You just said, not five minutes ago, that he crossed state lines to get your attention. What does that have to do with Batman?"

Stephens rolled his eyes, turning slightly so that his back was to Gordon. He raised a brow at Prentiss, but she wasn't sure what the expression was supposed to indicate. She had a funny feeling it had to do with Gordon's shift in behavior.

Spencer blinked, somewhat surprised that the team's theory was being pushed aside. "Actually," Reid began, "at Arkham, Dr. Thomas's notes indicated that Batman was mentioned in discussion, and Agent Gideon's interview with one of the guards proved some very interesting information on the topic. According to the guard, the Joker asked several of the other patients about Batman on a regular basis, seeking out information from other inmates who were more recently captured by the vigilante. In short, the Joker was 'keeping tabs' on Batman, so Agent Gideon's assessment is completely founded."

Gordon managed to keep down whatever he was about to say. After a moment, he nodded his consent. "I still don't understand how it fits in with wanting Feds here."

To that, Reid shrugged.

"There's a reason," Gideon assured, but he stepped away from speculations, "To find the Joker, though, we need to understand the Batman. Understand Joker's obsession with the vigilante. In order to do so, we need to profile the Batman."

Hotch turned back to Gordon, choosing to ignore the commissioner's earlier outburst. "We understand you have some recordings that might be of use to us. We'd like you to make those available."

Gordon nodded, standing slowly. "Of course," he replied, and cleared his throats, "I'll send them over."

Morgan straightened. "You're leaving?"

"And surrender the case to Captain Sawyer? No," Gordon assured, planting a rueful smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "I just need to make a phone call. I'll be back."


	5. Chapter 4: Making a Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker makes an unexpected move, and the team meets the (in)famous Bruce Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 4**

**Making a Scene**

In the faint light of the confession booth, the glove could have been black. But when it was raised, when the light from the other side hit it just right, one could see that, instead, it was a dark, plum purple. One of those covered fingers ran across the tiny crosses, the heavy netting between confessor and priest.

"Uh, _father_ , I do have a confession to make."

He could see the priest nod gently at the words. "Go on, son."

The Joker chuckled, pressing his face against the tiny holes, pulling the skin over them, scratching his scar against the crosses. "Well, father, I'm about to do something _very_ naughty."

The priest blinked. In another city, he might have been confused. Might have asked the confessor to repeat the words, but Father Bentley knew Gotham. He went for the door. The booth's thin partition didn't budge.

A bead of sweat slid down the man's temple. This was Gotham City, and the silence on the other side of the booth could afford him no other words. "Oh, dear God…"

"Nah," the Joker assured, "it's just me."

***

Reid stooped down, his hair falling against his cheeks, and his back bent into a painful curve as he leaned down to watch the video playing across the screen. This one had been different from the rest, as it wasn't of the Joker teasing the authorities, or the brief and somewhat blurred footage from security cameras that had managed to catch a glimpse of the real Batman in action. No, this footage was from a news reel recording a press conference the day that Harvey Dent, Gotham D.A., confessed to being the Batman, and the rest of the team had all but dismissed it. Reid, however, felt there was something he was missing. So he re-winded, watching once more.

_"I am the Batman."_

The words came out strong, planned. Dent had planned to confess. To lie. About being the very man who would end his life within the week. Had this been what had caused Batman to commit a handful of murders after years of never killing the criminals he apprehended? Had it been the city's betrayal, the populous' quick decision to give him over to the Joker, or had it been Dent's confession? Perhaps he hadn't appreciated the man taking credit for his job? Perhaps it had pushed a fragile mind to the breaking point?

No, that wasn't it.

Instinct told Reid that there was something wrong with this scenario, but the couldn't quite put his finger on what it was bugging him.

Hotch walked past at a long stride, Gideon at his elbow. The agents stopped in front of Detective Stephens.

"Gather your men, Detective," Hotch requested, "we have a rough profile we'd like to give."

Stephens blinked. "Isn't that what you briefed them on a few minutes ago?"

It was true, while Reid and Prentiss had sorted through the video footage, Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon had presented a handful of officers within the Major Crime Unit the working profile for the Joker. It wasn't much, but it would give them an edge when it came to confronting and catching the clown. They hoped.

"This one's on the Batman," Gideon explained.

Reid paused the video, stepping out behind the other agents. He'd known they were working a profile for their own use, but he hadn't realized that they would be presenting it to the officers. The young agent had the distinct impression that his supervisors hadn't mentioned their plan to Commissioner Gordon either. When the officers did gather for the group, and Hotch explained the necessity of the profile, Reid realized he was right.

Commissioner Gordon stood in the doorway, watching from afar as the team reviewed what they knew about Batman.

"As we said earlier, the Joker behaves much like an addict. His crimes act as a drug, and like any addict, he requires increasing doses over time. In order to receive his fix, he plans more elaborate, sadistic schemes. The Batman is not a sadist, but he, too, requires a fix." Hotch paused, staring past the group and avoiding eye contact with Commissioner Gordon. "He must have justice. He _must_ catch, or if required of him, kill these criminals. It has become his duty to do so."

Reid frowned. As far as they could tell, Batman had never committed murder "if required of him." While the possibility remained that he could be responsible for some of the unsolved deaths the city had seen over the years, Reid somehow doubted it. It was strange, that Batman had seemingly went out of his way to arrest thugs, thieves, and even murderers, only to go on a short spree and quit again. To go back to simply capturing them for the authorities after murdering. It was so…unlikely. Nevertheless, Spencer knew Hotch well enough to not question the choice of wording.

In fact, some egging voicing within him told him to stay quiet for this profile.

Morgan stood up, drawing attention to himself. "Batman is well trained, possibly as military or law enforcement, but make no mistake: he was never officially in these fields. All training he's taken part in was intended for its current use, to catch criminals. We are certain that he's lived in this city for most, if not all, of his life and that Gotham is where he received his first taste of violence. He's too well trained for this to be a recent event. Something in his past triggered the emergence of the Batman persona."

A cocky officer at the back raised a hand. "When is someone gonna tell us why this guy dresses like a bat?"

"Likely," Gideon picked up, "it's an image he himself associates with fear. He doesn't dress as an animal under the delusion that he's more than human, he dresses that way to invoke fear."

A young officer with a red ponytail tilted her head towards the board. "Isn't that like what you said about the Joker--the fear factor thing? We sure the Bat's not just paranoid that someone's going to see his face?"

"Hiding his identity is part of it, yes," Gideon replied. "A very large part. But this isn't a case of paranoia. The mask, the deepened voice, the persona, are relevant to what he does. In turn, though, these elements betray him. They tell us who he is." The agent took a breath, raising a hand towards the closest window. "Gotham knows this man. Its citizens would recognize him in an instance if he were to go out without a mask. I can guarantee you that, if we haven't encountered this man already, we will soon enough. He is a fixture of Gotham City with or without his costume."

Hotch took a step forward, his eyes following an officer from the front desk as he approached the commissioner in the doorway. Gordon winced at the news the officer provided and moved into the room, drawing the attention of the rest of the BAU.

"We should wrap this up," Gordon said, frowning, "the Joker's just made an appearance at St. Paul's Cathedral. You're going to want to see this."

***

She really was pretty-- Zsasz stroked her cold cheek and smiled slightly-- and now she was free, too.

It had been so long since he'd really done one for himself. Sure, getting Falcone to pay him for it was great, but there was something special about picking out your own victim, about choosing which bumbling zombie was worth slicing open. Because some of them, some of those walking dead were just so much more deserving.

Like her. Abby Greene, waitress, dropout. Dead girl.

Zsasz slid her favorite scarf around her neck, hiding the gaping slice of missing flesh, and tied it into place. With a little hum at his lips, he took a step back, examining his work.

_Perfect._

Abby was propped using a coat rack, her arms folded and secured under each elbow, her order pad tucked against her chest. A pen poked free from one frozen fist. The expression on her face, that was where Zsasz had trouble at times, but not with Abby. She hadn't been stunned in that final moment. She had simply been… empty. Thankful. In death, as she was in life.

Zsasz unbuttoned his own shirt, his fingers running across the tally over his six-pack. He glanced down, one stained nail counting the tiny scars in each line. He found a row of tally marks with only four lines and raised his knife to the skin. A diagonal slice, thin and solid. Abby's mark.

Something to remember her by. Without wiping off the stream of blood sliding over his belly, he pulled his shirt closed and began to button it once more.

"Another one down," he muttered.

And, as much as he'd enjoyed it, he was looking forward to a getting paid again. The job, he was sure, would be just as…Satisfying.

***

Morgan wasn't fond of churches, and a tenseness crept over his shoulder blades as he stepped down the aisle. His eyes slid over the long cedar pews once before training on the scene before him. A group in Gotham PD jackets were checking for evidence, well, that's what they were supposed to be doing. Instead, most of them were spectators, staring dumbly at the life-sized statue before them, mixed expressions of sadness and ill-contained humor on their faces. And, for at least one officer, the scene invoked a sense of chilling fear.

"Well," Morgan breathed, "that's just…"

"Unexpected," Reid supplied, looking nonchalant over the disfigurement.

The statue was of the Mother Mary, her hands outspread, a wide smile upon her face. Painted upon her face. A red smear at the lips, black coal at the eyes and white over the unveiled forehead and chin. Clown make-up.

Yes, the Joker had definitely left his mark.

Gideon stared down at an officer, the first on the scene. Though he'd already asked the question, he felt the need to voice it again. "And no one was hurt?"

The cop shook his head, a dizzy, lost expression in his face. "Nope, not a soul. Had about a half dozen folks amongst the pews and Father Bentley locked in the confessionary. Lady in the second pew said she was in the middle of her Hail Mary when the Joker comes out, gun in hand. He released three rounds into the aisle way, stopping her from leaving, and proceeded to… defile the Virgin Mother." The officer quickly swallowed his words. "But not like in a sex way," he corrected, "with just, you know, the paint."

Gideon stood, hands on hips a moment more, nodding to himself.

"After that, the Joker strolled out. Lady at the front called us in."

The officer wasn't sure whether he should move on. He bounced from one foot to the other, before choosing to continue instead.

"You know, it's weird."

Gideon blinked away his first thought, instead choosing to go with, "Which part?"

"I was on my way to a homicide." The officer looked over at the statue again, shaking his head. "Heard the other boys were actually going to give Major Crimes a call. They thought the murder might have been committed by the Joker."

"Why's that?"

The officer shrugged. "A young lady was killed with a knife and posed. Guess, well, homicide thought it was kinda, ya know, funny. Like the Joker's kind of funny. Girl was a waitress and she was posed in her own home, standing, dressed in her uniform. Her table had been set up, too, with drinks, like she was serving someone."

Gideon's brow rose. "And they've since ruled out the Joker?"

"Well, yeah." The officer frowned, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Between the security officer at her apartment complex and the body temp, the coroner's sure she was killed at the same time the Joker was here, painting. Man couldn't be in two places at once."

The officer took the distant expression in Gideon's gaze to mean that he could leave.

Morgan had been listening in. He recognized the expression as something more, and moved forward. "Gideon, what's on your mind?"

Gideon forced out a short chuckle. "Funny," he muttered. "He wasn't wrong. It sounds like our man."

Reid chewed his lip before supplying an answer. "A double? One of his lackeys dressed in makeup?"

"A psychotic doesn't care about covering up his crimes. He doesn't care about proving his innocence." Gideon shook his head. "No. It's almost as if the Joker did this just to prove he was here. Still, if he doesn't care, why? Why make such an effort?"

Spencer stared up at the statue, uncomfortable with her almost lewd grin. There was only one reason he could be certain of: "For laughs."

***

"I've still got a few hours in me," Emily protested. Nevertheless, she pulled her bag from the vehicle and released the SUV to the hotel's valet.

Hotch raised a brow, refusing to repeat himself. It had been a long day. They needed the rest. There was nothing more to be done at the moment. Period.

Morgan snorted, showing that he, himself, was already a little drowsy. "I'm surprised they held our rooms this long. I'm fairly certain check-in is supposed to take place before midnight."

Reid forced a smile in response, elbow to elbow with his teammate. When he looked up, however, his brow wrinkled in confusion. The group had entered from the side of the building and were now in full view of a glowing, two-floor entry way. "J.J., how did the budget allow for this?"

J.J. shook her head. "I made arrangements with a sister hotel, but after it came out that we were in the city to deal with the Joker, The Menagerie insisted we visit their suites." She glanced over her shoulder at the younger agent. "And while that was tempting alone, the fact that they were only a few blocks away from the GCPD sold me."

Morgan raised a brow. "How did they know the FBI were in the city?"

"I have a feeling that it had to do with Major Garcia making a few phone calls," J.J. smirked.

The team crossed the marble floor as a unit, their destination the front desk. Though it was, indeed, after midnight the lobby was surprisingly loud, high pitched, raucous laughter coming from the five-star dining option to their right. Before the team could reach the desk, they were intercepted by a voice exiting the restaurant.

"Ladies," a man said, "if I'm not mistaken, I believe this is the famed FBI team who'll be staying in Gotham for a while. Let's say hello to our saviors, shall we?"

Hotch stopped, shooting his piercing gaze at the well-dressed man all-but stumbling toward them. On his right arm a blond Amazon, on his left a buxom red head, but, somehow, Bruce Wayne managed to hold his champagne glass without spilling a drop. He flashed a wide, white smile at the group of agents before breaking loose from the women.

"Bruce Wayne." Bruce pushed a hand out to the closest of them, Gideon. Gideon hesitated only a moment before giving it a half-hearted shake.

Spencer cocked his head in curiosity. "As in Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises?"

"One and the same," Bruce replied. His gaze narrowed slightly on the young doctor, but he quickly flashed his million-dollar grin again. "It really is a pleasure to have you in Gotham. The manager told me you were staying here."

He quickly turned to Emily, his eyes widening dramatically when he took her hand. "Though, I must say, you're not exactly what I expected."

Emily forced herself not to grimace at his shift in body-language. "And what exactly were you expecting, Mr. Wayne?"

He chuckled. "You know? Suit, stuff upper lip, stick up their _ahh_ \--that guy," Bruce pointed a finger at Hotch, before smiling. "I'm just having fun with you," he excused. When Agent Hotchner's frown didn't lift, Bruce took a step back, gesturing toward the restaurant in surrender. "Let me make it up to you. How about a nightcap? Maybe a steak?"

"Is the restaurant still open?" Reid asked. Morgan rolled his eyes at the sincerity in the question. Reid almost never refused free food.

"Sure it is," Bruce patted Reid's arm playfully. "They tend to keep the place open late for the owner. And his company."

Hotch steered Reid away from the restaurant's enticing doorway. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Wayne, we have a very long day tomorrow."

Bruce held up a hand, as if dismissing them. "I understand. Say, if you need anything, room service, a decent masseuse, just ask. It's on me. Hey, kid," Bruce ignored Reid's obvious wince at the word 'kid', "I'll make sure you're sent a plate of steak and eggs for breakfast."

"That's very," Hotch paused, "gracious of you, Mr. Wayne. But I'm afraid we're here to do a job. If you'll excuse us…"

The team moved to the desk, the sound of giggles and Bruce Wayne's voice fading behind them as the trio moved out the side doors and toward the valet.

Emily leaned into J.J. "He'd be kind of handsome if he wasn't so…"

"Obnoxious?"

"That's the word," Emily nodded.

***

Spencer didn't like being a floor away from the others. In fact, when he'd exited the elevator, he'd stared back at the closed doors, almost hoping one of his team members would have mercy on him and switch rooms. Alas, the doors remained closed, and Reid pushed his bag further up his shoulder, and turned to the long, empty corridor in front of him.

Suite or not, he would have preferred to be closer to his working family.

422\. He found the number and slid his card in the lock. Red to green, and he pulled the handle down. Instinct told him to reach for the lights. When he found the switch, however, nothing happened.

Reid frowned, standing in the doorway to the blackened room. He could see the silhouette of a lamp only a few feet away. One step in, he paused, though, and looked down, noticing something beneath his shoe.

Reid squatted down, plucking free a thick piece of paper. The light from the hallway filtered in over his back, illuminating the blue, patterned backing of the playing card between his fingers. Spencer took a trembling breath and turned the card over. A jester stared back at him.

When his eyes lifted, he saw what the shadow of his body had hidden from him. The floor of the room, the entirety of the room, was scattered with playing cards.


	6. Chapter 5: The Joker's Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter of the day is "Z."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
> 
> The reference to Vincent Perotta is from Season 1, Episode 8 "Natural Born Killer" in which a serial killer worked for the mafia as a hitman/torturer.

**Chapter 5**

**The Joker's Wild**

The hotel had been evacuated, yet the building seemed as busy as a bee hive. Police officers weaved in and out of rooms. Their voices, the groans and whines of their dogs, the hum of radios all became one constant, high-pitched buzz. Reid was tempted to cover his ears, block himself from it. Instead, he simply leaned his back against the corridor's ivory-painted wall and closed his eyes, feeling the relaxing pull of sleep.

"Spence, are you okay?"

Reid blinked to awareness, standing straight. J.J.'s concerned blue eyes stared up at him. "Hey, J.J. I'm fine, just a little tired."

J.J. smiled softly. "I think most of us are running on adrenaline right now."

"I work better on coffee," Reid returned. "Did they find writing in any of the other room?"

She shook her head, but quickly touched his arm to stop whatever he was about to say. "It doesn't mean anything, Spence. He couldn't have possibly of known who was staying in which room."

Her words didn't comfort him, but he nodded, pretending they meant something.

Reid's room hadn't been the only one covered in playing cards. Each room reserved for the FBI was floored with two dimensional jokers, the lights blown. And each room was empty. No mad men hung to the shadows, no planted bombs under the beds, no poison gas in the vents, no acid in their mini-bars. The rooms were clean. Except for one.

J.J. was adjacent to Gideon. She hadn't entered the room, but the team found the message as soon as the bomb squad had cleared the area. Only her room had a working light, in the bathroom. The bathroom mirror of the suite was wide, stretching out above the double sinks, and written in thick blood letters were the words _"Read 'em and Weep."_

A smiling face with an x for each eye finished the _subtle_ threat.

"Anything on the cards yet?" Reid asked.

J.J. shook her head. "Nothing yet. No substances on them. They appear to be factory new from varying brands, probably opened right before they were deposited. No news on the blood on the mirror yet, either. Lab is putting a rush on it."

"Is Morgan still with the surveillance?"

"Yeah." J.J. sighed. "He's went over the video half a dozen times, but there's nothing really there. He had it sent to Garcia, nevertheless."

Reid frowned. The security video showed a "maid" approaching the rooms a few hours before the team had checked in. The real maid, though, was dead long before that, her body found in an industrial washer in the basement.

"Does it bother you, J.J.?" Reid realized his voice had lowered when an officer walked too close. He hunched forward, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"Which part?" J.J. asked.

"That he could have…" Reid chewed his lip. "That, if he'd wanted to, he could have killed one of us. All of us. We know what he's capable of, J.J."

J.J. opened her mouth and closed it again, unsure of how to reply. "He's a terrorist, Spence," she finally replied. "He inflicts terror."

Reid knew that was true. He also knew there must be something more to the Joker's behavior. The Joker wanted the F.B.I here. And he wanted to send them a message: they weren't safe. But perhaps that wasn't the whole message, perhaps he simply wished to add 'you were supposed to be doing a job. Not sleeping in an expensive hotel.'

Maybe that last part was just in his own mind. Reid wasn't sure. Sleeplessness was not a profiler's best friend.

J.J.'s phone ringed. She pulled out her cell, mouthing, "Commissioner Gordon," before stepping away in search of a quiet spot. Gordon had spent a few hours at the scene before heading home with the promise of a phone call in the morning. Which meant the sun was rising. Reid groaned. No wonder he was so tired.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, He straightened his back, feeling the muscles stretch, and stepped further down the hallway, towards the elevator. On the ground floor, the hotel was just as busy, the workers finally being allowed to re-enter the building, though most of the hotel patrons had since relocated. Reid took a deep breath, seeking out the scent of coffee.

"Excuse me?"

Reid recognized the voice and turned to see Bruce Wayne simultaneously brushing off the hotel manager and a young officer. Bruce caught the agent's eye and silently asked for aid.

Reid cleared his throat, tapping the cop on the arm. "It's okay. He's the owner of the hotel."

Bruce slipped past the officer, grabbing Reid's hand for a short shake. "Good, you remembered me."

Reid almost laughed at the statement. "Hard to forget."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name last night."

"I'm Dr. Spencer Reid." Reid tilted his head, somehow surprised by the raised brow on Bruce's face. It was a false expression. As if the other man was faking disbelief at hearing the title. It wouldn't really surprise Reid if Bruce had already known his name. Someone with that much money and a Wayne family's pull was bound to be privy to more knowledge than the media. "Is there a reason why you're here, Mr. Wayne?"

"I was out most of the night, didn't hear the news until the morning. Is everyone on your team alright, Dr. Reid? Did the Joker hurt anyone?"

Bruce's concern was genuine. That did surprise Reid slightly. The man's personality seemed to indicate an over abundant sense of self, very direct narcissism. Reid couldn't quite comprehend why someone like Bruce Wayne would show up in person to check on his hotel instead of leaving the job to his lessers. Perhaps there was more to him than the rich, somewhat drunk behavior he'd displayed earlier, the young agent reasoned.

Reid bit his lip, fairly certain he shouldn't release the information. Still, there was some nudging sense of trustworthiness in Bruce's eyes. And most of the information had already been released to the media. "The team's unharmed, however, I'm afraid to tell you that one of your maids was murdered late yesterday. A Lisa Sanchez."

Bruce shook his head, his voice lower when he replied, "I didn't know her." His frowned deepened. "I heard there were cards left in your rooms…But the Joker didn't leave anything else? Seems strange…"

Reid nodded in agreement, but the words left behind on J.J.'s mirror ran through his head. It must have shown on his face, because Bruce was looking at him with a raised brow.

"Was there something else?"

Spencer tucked his hands into his pockets. "Nothing I can discuss at the moment."

Bruce nodded slowly, and dropped the subject.

Reid was already looking over the man's shoulder. The elevator doors had opened to show the rest of his team. Hotch's gaze was seeking him out. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I have to go," Reid muttered, and all but ran toward his teammates. "We're leaving?"

"To the precinct," Hotch replied. His frown deepened when he spotted an alert Bruce Wayne standing across the lobby. Aaron dropped whatever comment lingered with the eye contact and turned his attention back to Reid. "Commissioner Gordon was contacted by the captain of homicide earlier this morning. I'm afraid Gotham City has more than the Joker to contend with. Two women have been found dead within twenty-four hours of each other. Looks to be the same weapon used, their bodies posed in similar methods. There's little doubt that it's the work of the same killer."

"The beginning of a possible spree?" Reid asked, looking doubtful.

Gideon pushed forward. "That's what we need to find out."

***

The conference room of the Major Crimes Unit was quiet all but a minute after Agent Morgan had answered his cell phone with a wince and a quick explanation of the early morning's events. The voice across the speaker phone was shrill, past the point of panic, and somewhat peeved. "So an insane clown threatens all of my kittens with game night and no one bothers to call me until _five hours_ later?"

While most of the team was left baffled that they had been called domesticated pets, Reid was simply chewing his jaw. Unable to hold it in, he blurted, "Actually, it's been closer to seven hours since the initial discovery. If we then take into account the time of death for Lisa Sanchez and the…"

Morgan's glare should have been enough to stop Reid. It was. Spencer hunched over the table he was currently sitting on and began to dig through the evidence box he'd requested. It was entirely full of the left behind playing cards in marked evidence bags. Reid was scanning their labels, dividing them by room. What he was looking for, the rest of the team couldn't be certain.

Garcia released a shallow breath across the phone. "Okay," she said, with a forced calm to her tone, "next time you seen anything remotely scary and circus themed, please give me a call. Fear of clowns or not, I will be up there in a heartbeat."

"Will do, baby girl," Morgan said. Not for the first time in his life, he was left happy that the locals were not in the room for one of his favorite analyst's outbursts. "Did you get anything off those files Detective Stephens faxed you?"

"Yes, I did. Which is the unfortunate part," Garcia answered. The sound of typing echoed through the phone before her voice returned. "I'm sending the results your way. Detective Stephens asked me to look into connections between the two women. Zip was found, btw. However, I took the liberty of checking for similar murders in Gotham's oh-so-very-long list of unsolved homicide cases."

"You found something, I assume," Hotch said.

"You bet your favorite tie I did." Garcia didn't sound pleased with the information. "At first I looked for just women, found a few cases of women with records for solicitation found posed on their favorite streets after having their throats cut. There were five total, spanning across a decade. I thought that was a little spaced out, so I looked further, expanded the age range and the gender. I found a total of eighteen murders that could be linked to Gotham and surrounding suburbs. The odd part is that most of these cases were thought to be related to paid hits. As in organized crime, kiddies."

Hotch nodded to the rest of the team, feeling their building tension. "Thanks, Garcia. Could you see if any of the unsolved cases brought in the same suspects?"

"On it, my liege, but I can tell you, it's going to be a long list," Garcia replied. "Looks like most of the unsolved murders were linked to big time boss Carmine Falcone, current resident of Arkham Asylum."

"Lovely," Morgan muttered.

"You're telling me, my caramel knight," Garcia chirped.

"Get back to us as soon as possible," Hotch ended, tapping the phone with one finger. He looked up at the team. "We need to start a new board with Garcia's info. And, J.J., get a handle on the media. We don't want them aware of the previous murders yet, and we certainly don't want them associating the Joker with this new serial killer. The last thing we need is this city in a greater panic."

J.J. nodded, quickly stepping out into the busy corridor, her phone in hand.

"What if Garcia's right and these mob hits are related to the murders over the past day?" Prentiss asked.

Reid played with his hands, nervous energy leaving him bouncing on his toes. "Out of the more recent unsubs, Vincent Perotta comes to mind. A natural born killer who worked as a professional hit man for organized crime. It was the perfect profession. There's a possibility that our current unsub is, was, in a similar situation before Falcone's arrest."

It came to no surprise to the team that Reid was privy to information on the arrest of a mob boss several states away from Virginia. "The confusing part is, if that were the case," Reid added, "what has the unsub been doing since Falcone's apprehension and why has he advanced to two murders within a twenty-four hour span?"

Gideon rested his chin on his fist. "If he's anything like Perotta, he wouldn't have stopped. However, as a professional, he would have known to get out of dodge. We need to have Garcia check surrounding states for similar cases."

Hotch was silent a moment before crossing his arms. "We can't be certain that the Joker and the new unsub are linked. Officially, we were called in to deal with the Joker, so we need to concentrate on his case."

Morgan moved forward. "Hotch, this unsub is spiraling…"

" _Um._ "

Morgan turned at the sound, seeing an apprehensive Reid digging through the cards. Each were individually bagged, but Reid tore through the tape as if it were meaningless. "Um, guys?" he repeated. "Hold that thought."

"What is it, Reid?" Hotch asked.

"The light. It's brighter in here," Reid muttered. He lifted the card up, squinting as he held it diagonally near the closest lamp, studying the reflection across the blue patterned backing of the playing card. He tilted it from side to side before reaching out with his free hand and snapping his fingers for attention. "Paper! Pencil!"

Emily scrambled for a thin sheet and a sharpened 2.

Reid sat the card on the table top, placing the sheet over it. He lightly ran the pencil over the surface and stared dumbly at the scribbled image left behind. "Do you see that?" he asked Emily, the closest.

Prentiss bent over his shoulder. "Are those letters? We should send it to a lab for a clearer image. A tech should be able to raise the indentation."

Morgan slid around her. "First one looks like the letter 'Z'."

Reid, mouth hanging wide, picked up the paper, staring at it intensely. "I know this," he whispered. "I know this name…" Excited, he nearly knocked Prentiss over in his hast to reach the door. "We need to check the info from Garcia," he quickly explained. "Look for the name 'Zsasz'. I think there's a connection."

"Reid, slow down," Hotch commanded. "Explain."

Reid came to stop before he left the conference room. "Do you think it's a coincidence that the Joker was in that church yesterday while our second unsub was murdering a woman? Or that the unsub was killing a second woman while the Joker was planting harmless cards in our rooms?" He flipped the card over his fingers with the ease of a trained magician. "There's a clue here."

And he disappeared out the door.


	7. Chapter 6: The Gambler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team gets a lead on Victor Zsasz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 6**

**The Gambler**

The officers before them looked as exhausted as the team felt, but Hotch had the feeling that they were running on plenty of sleep. It was the information itself that was draining the life from their faces. At first slightly curious as to what specially trained FBI agents would have to say about a man who had wrecked havoc on their city, the officers of the Major Crimes Unit now appeared pessimistic, hopeless. One too many pictures of posed victims would do that to a cop.

However, the sarcasm and doubt had left the dialogue. No questions were asked as they took in the profile Hotch spouted.

"…And we believe the Joker may have left us the identify of this man. Victor Zsasz, previous employee of the Falcone crime family. Zsasz has remained at large since the Arkham Asylum riots, and we believe that he may have returned to Gotham recently."

"Do we know for sure it's Zsasz?" Detective Stephens asked. "How do we know this isn't just the Joker jerking our chain?"

"As for the identity, we can't be sure until the lab returns the DNA results," Hotch answered. "However, based on Zsasz's past crimes and the manner in which Abby Greene and Marie Simmons were murdered and displayed, the profile suggests that Zsasz committed these crimes."

"Jerking our chain," Gideon muttered. He shrugged, the simple gesture catching the eyes of the entire room. "The Joker is doing just that, Detective Stephens, but that in no way suggests that he's presented the wrong identity." The older agent rose from where he was propped against one desk, taking the chance to stare at the board behind him with something akin to awe on his face. "On the contrary, Detective. The Joker is a narcissist. He's proud of what he has done. Somehow he is linked to Zsasz's recent crimes, and he wants us to know that, which is why the cards were planted in our rooms. _'Look at me,'_ he's saying, _'I have the power to create chaos without lifting a finger. Catching me will not stop the bloodshed.'_ His message is directed at us, but he'll direct it at the city soon enough. Panic will spread, and as soon as it does, we will lose what little control we have over the situation. We need to apprehend the Joker and Zsasz before that happens."

Hotch stared at Gideon for a fleeting moment before he wrapped up the profile and dismissed the group. He nodded to Detective Stevens, speaking to the man briefly before walking back to his team. Commissioner Gordon remained behind, a small distance between him and the agents, as if he were simply there to observe.

"Hotch, how are we prioritizing?" Morgan deadpanned.

Aaron raised a brow. "We're not."

Morgan's brow wrinkled in confusion, but Prentiss leaned forward in anticipation. "Divide and conquer?" she guessed.

Hotch's reply was a curt nod. "Morgan, Prentiss, I just spoke to Detective Stephens. He interviewed an officer whose late partner had been a part of Zsasz's initial arrest. We already know that Victor Zsasz was born to a wealthy family and squandered his trust fund after developing a taste for gambling. This was how he became employed by Falcone in the first place. If we're correct and he has recently returned to Gotham…"

"Old habits die hard," Morgan finished. "We know anything about this past haunts?"

"Unfortunately, Gotham City has seen its fair share of illegal gambling rings, however, Detective Stephen's information has narrowed down the list." Hotch paused for a breath. "Abby Greene was a waitress at The Strand Fish Market. The second victim, Marie "Taffy" Simmons had been arrested for solicitation nearly a month ago near the Gotham City East Docks. According to Stephens, there's rumor that The Strand hosts a backroom card game."

"But Marie's body wasn't found near the docks," Prentiss noted.

Hotch nodded. "Garcia said the other prostitutes were found on their favorite blocks. Marie Simmons was found near the southern end of the harbor, instead. We know she wasn't killed there, though. Which is why we suspect he might have posed her elsewhere, to keep us away from his comfort zone."

"You want us to check out The Strand?" Morgan asked.

"It's doubtful that there will be any activity this early in the day, but I want you and Prentiss to look the area over," Hotch replied. "If Zsasz is comfortable in the area, there's the possibility that he's staying nearby."

Hotch turned from the two agents, mouth half open in a question for Gordon, but the commissioner had disappeared from the room. Shaking his head, the agent turned back to the rest of the team, glad to see that Prentiss and Morgan were already preparing to leave.

"Jason, could you contact the director of Arkham Asylum? Carmine Falcone is still an inmate in the facility. Victor Zsasz has been working for him for years, so there's the possibility he might know more about Zsasz's favorite hang outs." Hotch balanced his hands on his waist. "If The Strand proves fruitless, we may need to interview Falcone."

Gideon cleared his throat. "It may be better for you to do so."

Hotch raised a brow. "Why's that?"

"Dr. Thomas and I don't see eye to eye. I think he'd be resistant to the idea of an interview."

Hotch absorbed the answer a moment, sharing a puzzled glance with the older agent before realizing he had no time for the discussion. "I'll call," he said, and stepped away.

Reid watched Gideon move to the board and stood to follow him. Elbow to elbow, Reid realized there was no subtle way to ask the question that was on his mind.

"Why were you so aggressive towards Dr. Thomas during our visit to Arkham?"

Gideon snorted, amused. Reid relinquished an abashed grin. Of course, there was an obvious answer: Dr. Thomas didn't know how to do his job very well. Still, Gideon had faced more incompetent men before and conducted himself more gracefully. So, Reid waited for a proper reply.

"I mentioned the missed interviews at Arkham?" Gideon asked.

Reid nodded in confirmation.

Gideon flared his nostril, distressed by the information on the board. He studied it a few seconds more before opening his mouth again. "A few months ago," he finally began, "not long after the Joker had been captured, I filed for an interview with Arkham Asylum. Instead of permission, I was given layer upon layer of red tape. Cases came up at the BAU, and the interview was never given." He smiled sadly at up at Reid. "I am left to wonder what I might have learned in that interview. Was there some sign of what the Joker was planning? It bothers me immensely. Because I know there probably was something I could have done to stop this madman from escaping."

"It's not your fault," Reid insisted.

Gideon nodded. "Not entirely. Though I should have been more insistent. But Dr. Thomas _is_ at fault. As is the administrator, Dr. Arkham. If we had been allowed to do our jobs then, we wouldn't have to do them now."

Reid licked his bottom lip. "Sir Isaac Newton said, 'I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people.' I think Dr. Thomas, as much as it counters his field of study, shares this philosophy. He didn't see what we could learn from the Joker, what we could prevent." Spencer pocketed his nervous hands and shrugged his shoulders, almost too abashed to finish his statement. To counter a man he recognized as his hero.

"Still," Reid continued, his voice at a near whisper, "in the end, he's not…that's to say, neither Arkham nor Thomas… are at fault for what's happened, Gideon. The Joker's is. The unsub. Isn't that what you're always telling me?"

***

The SUV crawled over cracked blacktop, coming to a stop at the dead center of the empty parking lot of The Strand Fish Market. Though, for the rest of Gotham, it was lunch, the market was surprisingly quiet, only a light blue pick-up, loaded down with crates, remained in front of the building, and, from the layer of grime over its hood, Morgan had serious doubts that the vehicle even worked.

"Okay, you were in the harbor earlier, right?" Morgan began. "It always this lively?"

"Different place," Emily noted, frowning at the building. "Looks like the East Docks have seen better days. Are they even in use?"

Judging from the lack of luxury boats and yachts in the dock, she had to guess the answer was no.

"Sure they are," Morgan countered. "By prostitutes, drug dealers, and the mob."

The agents approached the building at a matched stride, their eyes roaming the windows of The Strand for signs of life. The market itself was narrow, its two floors appearing taller than they should have, the wooden piers behind the restaurant too rickety to host an outside dining area. Its sign was red and blue and chipping from every flat surface, much like the rest of the building, and though tourists were likely to see such details as local charm, the view from The Strand Fish Market was anything but colorful.

A few hundred yards behind The Strand were two long barges rounded down with scrap metal in preparation for a tow.

Morgan came to a stop before he ever reached the front doors of the restaurant, shaking his head. He turned, facing the parking lot. The docks were even less appealing from this angle, the gray backside of an old factory bearing the painted logo of a boat company that hadn't been in business in twenty years stood, shaking against the strong winter wind as if one more gust might push it out into the water. It was in the barely-existent loop of streets, between the docks and old buildings, that was where the danger remained, even in the daylight. As bright as midday should have been, the entire area was cast in gloomy shadow, disturbed only by the movement of birds picking over a fisherman's loss. The only other sign of life was a homeless man, dark skin and white hair apparent even in the distance, in a bundle of brown cloth, shuffling to stuff himself with newspaper insulation before he pushed past an opening in the factory's aluminum siding. Morgan wasn't deceived by the apparent lack of activity, though. He knew what sort of things so often lurked just beyond the light of day.

Prentiss had stopped to study the opening times for the market. Morgan shot her a glance. "He's not there."

Emily raised a brow.

Morgan nodded at the factory. "If I was looking to hang low…"

He paused, hearing a high noise in the distance. It took him a moment to realize it was a scream. As soon it registered, his feet moved of their own accord toward the street. He ran along the length of the factory, boots kicking up the random weed that had managed to grow through the pavement. Another scream.

His long legs pumped the air, nearly sending him sliding into the corner of the building in his hast to pull his Colt free from its holster. A rational thought found its way in, and he slowed, checking for danger before rounding to the next side of the building. Prentiss's shoes clicked the ground behind him.

The screamer was alive but blood stained her fingertips. Morgan caught sight of her laying on the ground, collapsed onto a cardboard home that was, thankfully, unoccupied. In her yellowed fur coat and trembling state, she looked almost like a wounded animal. Past her was a running form in a hoodie and long gray coat. The figure paused at the end of the passage way, glancing over his shoulder for one last glimpse of his pursuer. Morgan could see the silhouette of his face, the distinct cut of his mustache and beard. An eight inch knife dangled from one gloved hand. The proof was enough for Morgan's gut: Zsasz. It _had_ to be Victor Zsasz.

Of all the dumb luck.

"Zombie," the woman hissed, frantic to pull herself out of the box, her green mini skirt riding up her netted hose. Her voice rose to the point of hysterics. "I'm not a zombie. _I'm not!_ "

Could the unsub heard the words? Understand them? There was the tiniest hint of a grin on Zsasz's face before he raced away.

"F.B.I! Freeze!" Morgan spouted. His fingers wanted to squeeze off a round, but his brain won. He ran to the woman, instead, stooping down just long enough to see that her injuries weren't critical. Zsasz disappeared around the next corner, headed toward what had to be the front of the building.

"Prentiss," Morgan snapped, "take her. I'm going after Zsasz."

If Emily had other plans, Morgan didn't stick around to hear about them. The dead run wouldn't make up for the minute head start Zsasz had. In the back of his head, Morgan knew this. He also knew that the unsub knew the terrain, was armed, was teasing the agent on his tail. But Morgan didn't care. This guy was working with the Joker. They were playing games with his team. It had to end.

Derek wouldn't stop, not until he had his cuffs behind Zsasz's back, damn it.

Morgan found himself at an opening, an over-sized garage door raised to half its height, at least ten feet. The thin chain that had kept it secured to the ground was abandoned in a mound. The space inside the building was wide, an assembly area of sorts, a long metal frame cupping air instead of a disassembled ship's hull sat to one side. Boat engines hung from cranks, their more valuable parts no doubt taken by vagrants years ago. Cracked fiberglass, piping, it was all that remained on the permanently oil-stained cement ground floor, the welding tools of long past either removed or stolen. The building, though, was two, maybe three, storys tall, and this area was only a portion of it. His eyes scanned the doorless shadows of openings at the back. Offices, supplies closets, bathrooms, Morgan wasn't sure. He took a step inside, caution causing him to hesitate. The snap of metal on metal made him raise his weapon. A scaffold stretched along high walls and then across the open air, connecting one side to the other. Only the center bridge was fully lit by the gray daylight leaking in through the huge garage door behind. A blackened office remained high above, and an exit, likely into another large work chamber of the factory. But it didn't interest the agent. What _did_ interest him was the slight sway of the center scaffold.

Morgan put his gun in the defensive position, ready to be used, and made his way to the far right, taking the metal stairs two at a time. They shook with the weight, clicking gently, but it was enough to give his position away. Morgan was gambling on the fact that Zsasz hadn't appeared to have been armed with a gun.

His body tense, Morgan hunched forward in preparation, his foot taking one step, then another onto the narrow scaffold. It wasn't the grinding sound of metal giving way that told Morgan that Zsasz hadn't been up here, it was the sudden lurch.

The pull of gravity was enough to knock Morgan to his knees. The raised pattern of the foothold cut into his legs but held him in place. Morgan's eyes widened in shock, but he collected his breath, realizing, for the most part, that the scaffold was still connected to the wall and barely leaning on its supports. It would hold. He hoped.

One sigh of relief was all he was allowed before he heard it: _click click click._ Chains passing through a metal chamber. Morgan wasn't sure what it meant until he saw one of the hollowed engines jerk in his direction, its primitive pulley put to use on the floor level. Inertia swung the chunk of metal at the bottom of the scaffold. The hit left Morgan scrambling for the handrail closest to the wall. It felt like slick ice against his palm, but he held on, even as the wall beneath his knees shifted.

The scaffold hung at its center, ready to pull loose, to fall. Morgan shot a look over his shoulder. The staircase was holding steady… if he could reach it.

 _"Did you like it, Mr. F.B.I?"_ The voice was distant, echoing off the metal walls like some surrounding specter bouncing from one place to another. Morgan ignored the weight of fear in the pit of his stomach and traced the sound to the shadows far across the room. Where the pulleys were. _"Did you like the dead things I left for you? They were_ dead _before I laid a hand on them, of course. I simply released them."_

"Victor Zsasz!" Morgan shouted. And immediately knew it was the wrong move. The profile had told them that, for all his gloating, his self righteous excuses, Zsasz would protect his identity.

There was a pause from Zsasz. "I like to talk to them on occasion, the ones I finish slowly. Explain why they're better off on my knife."

The shadows shifted with movement. But it didn't come from the direction of the pulleys. Morgan squinted. Prentiss?

 _"But I don't think I'll give you that luxury, Mr. F.B.I,"_ Zsasz finished. _"You should_ sincerely _hope that the impact kills you."_

It echoed throughout the chamber: _click click click._

The pulley released another load. It swung, cutting across the strip of outside light as it swung toward the scaffold. Morgan tightened his grip on the bar, preparing for the impact. The gleam of the chains caught his wide eyes, and the twenty foot section of scaffold disappeared beneath legs. He felt the pressure of his body weight on his arms only a moment before he had the breath knocked out of him.

Morgan blinked, coughing. He'd been thrown onto his back, his shoulder blades digging into the metal of the top two steps leading down from the scaffold. The stillness lasted only a moment before a hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to his feet again. The arm, a flash of black, repositioned itself, tight around his waist, and his rescuer all but ran down the steps with the agent in a slouched tow.

Steel bolts pulled free from the straining aluminum siding and the staircase fell, sideways, as tall and threatening as a tower, onto the unused boat frame. The crash of metal left Morgan's ears ringing, but he managed to regain himself. He blinked up, released on the concrete less than gently, and looked up to see a black cowl, the chin and lips of a Caucasian male. And piercing, black-lined eyes.

"Batman," Morgan breathed.

The vigilante's lips parted, but he hesitated, then glanced up, as if the pointed ears upon his head had detected some faint sound. Morgan was dazed, but he took the figure in, every inch, noting that the costume was armor, as they suspected, fully functional and not created for the aesthetic.

"Morgan!"

Derek pushed himself up on his cut knees just in time for Prentiss's shadow to fall over him. When he turned back to the factory floor, he saw only a mass of metal behind him. Batman was gone. And so was Victor Zsasz.

"Damn it," he groaned.

In the distance, sirens sounded. Their backup. Prentiss dropped to one knee, a hand at Morgan's elbow to help him stand.

"What happened?" Prentiss asked.

Morgan had the good sense not to punch the closest wall in frustration. He scowled at the empty factory. "We lost them. I had them in my grasp, and I lost them."


	8. Chapter 7: What's Right in Front of Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid makes a startling observation while reviewing the Dent tapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 7**

**What's Right in Front of Your Eyes**

Reid adjusted the heavy headphones over his ears, frowning at the computer screen in front of him. This wasn't what he'd been told to work on, he knew, but there was something here. Something that had been bugging him over the past day. He slid the playback bar back to the beginning, watching the footage once more. It had been live on that day, the press conference busy, the crowd emotional over the clown-faced bringer of chaos claiming their city.

_"Ladies and gentlemen thank you for coming…"_

Reid wasn't listening. His photographic memory didn't allow for doubt. He knew every word of Dent's short speech. He knew every facial tick the young DA displayed, every moment of hesitation, doubt, resolve in the man's expressions. So, why did he feel the need to watch this again? How could he possibly be missing anything?

Leaning forward, Reid decided to focus entirely on the crowd. Eager reporters, brandishing recording devices and mikes, cops near the back, and beside them, no doubt were the sound and cameras.

 _"…Firstly to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done."_ Dent took a breath. "Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in…"

There is was again, Dent preparing to take the fall. Or was he? Reid frowned. Had the Batman really made contact with the DA and told him he would be giving himself over? Dent had been ready to confess before he walked to the stand, but that didn't rule out the possibility that the real Batman hadn't been just as eager to be Gotham's sacrificial lamb.

A hand touched Reid's shoulder and he jumped, automatically throwing off his headphones. Seeing J.J.'s smiling face, he blushed and paused the video.

"Sorry," J.J. said. She sat a cup of coffee beside Reid, along with a handful of sugar packets. "Figured you might need something." She bent down beside him, the scent of her hair strong. Any other time, that alone might have been enough to throw Reid off track. "Why are you watching this again?" she asked.

Reid shrugged. "I think there might be something here."

J.J. didn't look entirely convinced, but she stared at the stilled image of Harvey Dent. With a sigh, she shook her head. "I just don't get it," she muttered. The agent stood straight again, throwing one arm at the man on the screen. "Batman was responsible for the capture of dozens of criminals, why did he progress to murder here? Why did he finish with Dent and then stop?"

Reid knew she wasn't speaking to him directly, but he couldn't stop his reply. "I'm not so sure Batman did it."

J.J.'s brow wrinkled with confusion. "What do you mean, Spence?"

He cleared his throat. "I really should finish with this, J.J., before the others get back.," he excused, sliding the headphones on. He could still feel J.J.'s curious stare, but, ignored, she walked away.

Reid pressed play and watched on.

_"One day, the Batman will have to answer for the laws he's broken, but to us. Not to this madman."_

The audience didn't agree. Cops moved forward, not to aid but to throw out their own accusations. One officer bumped a camera man, causing him to pan the crowd with a short shuffle. Reid glanced a well-dressed figure against the wall and paused the video.

Eyes at a squint, Reid pressed play again, watching for movement from the far left as Dent told the officers beside him. _"Take the Batman into custody."_

A step forward.

_"I am the Batman."_

The figure hesitated, withdrawing. Reid paused again, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He slid the headphones off again, scrambling with the box of files where the footage's transcript was stored. But that wasn't what Reid was looking for. There was also a file of photographs from the conference, taken by journalists and officers during Dent's confession.

A camera man had been standing directly behind the well-dressed figure. He'd caught a blurred glimpse of a frustrated face looking out at the barking crowd. Not at Dent. The crowd. As if he couldn't believe how quickly the citizens had turned on the vigilante. The face belonged to Bruce Wayne.

Reid licked his bottom lip and held up the photo to the paused image on the monitor. The location was the same. It was Wayne who had stepped out, ever so slightly, toward the podium when Dent made his reveal. There was shock in the billionaire's expression, yes, but it wasn't the same as the crowd's, and it was followed by a grim expression of regret…and relief.

A faint whisper left Reid's mouth, "Batman."

***

Saucer lamps hung from metal piping along the pitched ceiling, one every four feet down the lengthy assembly line. The line itself, foot and a half sheets of metal counter top running along each side of a mildew dampened conveyer belt, remained littered with cardboard boxes, their colored pictures long faded and curling off. Rusted toy tractors lay on their sides, forgotten on a second belt across the factory floor. Crates clung to the building's walls, their contents untouched for decades. A vat, as fat and tall as a Weird Sister's cauldron, sat to one side with its abandoned whisk, A tower of metal molds that resembled oversized cupcake pans leaned against it. The adjacent oven was a cold piece of dead iron.

The most haunting feature of the factory, though, were the baby heads. Rubber, their pinkish and ethnic brown fleshy tones were dyed anew by years of black mold spores. The heads, the legs, the arms, littered the conveyer belt, were piled high in a cart that was no doubt intended to take the plastic pieces to their cloth bodies and voice boxes.

This was a cemetery of forgotten toys. Marcus Toys Inc. had closed in the early seventies, selling most their goods and equipment to their Chinese brother companies, but the Gotham factory had remained intact, the eldest of the Marcus heirs swearing the company would be reopened. And so it was locked up, toys dropped where they had been the day the power had been pulled, security hired to walk the grounds. Keep out bad elements.

A door was open, the cold air inside became the cold air outside. Heavy dress shoes in the form of spats slapped the floor. Purple gloved hands raised and then came together in a joyous clap. It continued, the loud applause, and was followed by a low, maniacal chuckle.

The lights flickered to life, the ones with bulbs remaining, and the belt began to move, pushing the piled toys away. Somewhere a machine attempted to stamp rubber buttocks that had never been poured into their molds.

"Well, this is just… perfect," the Joker said, his hands finally paused as his fingers clasped together, the joined fist held beneath his chin. A nine-year-old girl receiving a pony with a pink bow couldn't have looked more pleased.

And then the madman laughed until he choked on his own saliva.

It was amazing what a few hours of ingenuity and an ex-electrician lackey could do. Of course, the half dozen non-electrician lackeys had taken part, too, insuring that the seventy-year-old security officer was properly secured. Sure, give it a day or so, and someone would spot the lights, realize the old toy makers were at it again, but the Joker really didn't need more time. This, he knew, was a temporary sanctuary.

"Crank up the oven, will ya, boys, it's, ah, a bit chilly. We don't want our guest catching his death." The Joker smirked. "Yet."

No one laughed. Buzzkills. The Joker shrugged, too satisfied at the moment to consider putting a few smiles on the faces of his little elves. He was having a good day, a very good day, and he wanted it to continue. With a sweeping gesture, he pointed at the belt. "Bring him inside."

Two men with clown-faced stockings over their faces drug a body between them, its identity hidden by a canvas shopping bag over his face-- who said no one ever recycled? The Joker bounced on his toes, black-lined eyes sweeping the room. At the end of the belt he saw a glimpse of movement. It was manual, for the most part, but he realized its purpose at once when a trail of rubber dolls began to move beneath, whisked down adjacent slides. Two metal claws dove down, pressing plastic eyeballs into their hollow molds.

The Joker tapped his scar in thought and pointed at the eye press. "That looks fun."

The lackeys shared a silent glance before dragging their captive toward the machine. They pushed him against the closest toy slide, dolls moving against his back, and held him in place for their boss.

The Joker gave his victim a quick "rise and shine" in the form of a kidney shot, and jerked the sack off his head. The man beneath was middle-aged, his orange tabby-cat hair in a bowl cut, his rectangular glasses askew on his long, gaunt face. Terror was written across his face, though, somehow, the captive kept himself from screaming out.

"Doctor," the Joker began, licking his lip and looking too much like a lizard checking the temperature, "Jeremiah Arkham. Administrator of Arkham Asylum... It's, well, your lucky day, Doc, cause you've got a problem and I've… I've got a solution. A proposition."

The Joker raised a finger, motioning for a pause in thought, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He dug deeper, a look of mock abashment in the hunch of his shoulders. Finally, he pulled free four razor-sharp inches of knife.

"Ah, there it is," he muttered. "Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, a proposition, blah blah blah." The clown blinked lazily, tilting his head in the doctor's direction as if about to tell the man a secret. "The truth is, it's not really a proposition, so much as a demand," he whispered, "but I'm hoping we can both count it as a win-win learning experience."

An expression of resolve swept over Jeremiah's features. Sweat rolled down beneath his fringe of hair, but Jeremiah's expression remained cold, calculating. The fear was still present, but buried deep. "There is no need for threats," he said, his voice high, but steeled, "Tell me, what do you want from me?" He stared hard, trying not to look at the knife. "What is it you need from me, Mr. Joker?"

"That's just swell, Doc. Cause I, uh, need you to send a little message… But more on that later…" The Joker's cheek twitched. He cocked his head, distracted from the doctor, and squinted up at the skinny henchman to his right. "How tall are you?"

The lackey blinked. "Uh," he swallowed, "about 6'1"."

The Joker's smile widened, "I just love Tuesdays."

***

Reid leaned back, tucked one foot under his bouncing knee and chewed the cuticle of his left thumb. A folder remained on the desk before him, open, but his eyes weren't trained on it, nor was he looking at the board a few feet away. The map at his side remained untouched for the past ten minutes as well, and the computer. It had been shut down some time ago.

Gideon walked into the room with Hotch and paused at the sight, as if confused. Hotch did the same, taking a step forward, into Reid's line of sight. "Something wrong, Spencer?"

Reid didn't reply, as if he were fully intent on blooding his thumb using his teeth alone.

"Spencer!" Hotch snapped.

Reid jumped, nearly falling out of his seat and blinked up at the two men.

"Nothing," he spouted, unsure that either of the men had asked him a question.

Anxiousness welled up inside him, but he forced it down. Reid opened his mouth again, ready to call their attention to the conference pictures, but he forced the urge down. He had been so close to telling them, so close to gathering the team into the room...Then they'd received the phone call from Prentiss and Morgan.

The Batman had saved Morgan's life.

Reid had already been filled with doubt over the profile the team had given for Batman. Much of it, Reid knew, had to be truth. The right ingredients for a vigilante. But some of it…

No, Reid couldn't tell them, not until he was sure that the team knew everything there was to know on Batman. Not until Reid himself knew…

Hotch and Gideon shared a knowing glance.

"What?" Reid asked. He winced, knowing that guilt was probably written across his face. "I was just thinking. About nothing. Nothing particular. Just the case. In general."

He realized he was tapping his hands against his desk and forced himself to stop.

Gideon's brow looked as if it might meet his hairline, but before he could reply, the conference room door opened once again, an angry Morgan being soothed by a determined Prentiss. It was, unfortunately, becoming a sight the rest of the team was used to seeing.

"Glad you guys are okay," Reid noted, happy to have the attention off of him.

Morgan rolled his eyes, but not at Reid. "Of course he saved my life. He had to. It fit his profile. His needs couldn't be met if he didn't try. That doesn't make him a good guy, Emily. He was there, Zsasz was there: we don't know for sure that those two things are unrelated. There's a chance the Batman could be in on this, just like the Joker. Could be an angel of death scenario, Joker and Zsasz put people in danger, Batman rescues them, each playing their part in their sick fantasies." Realizing he was receiving silent looks of pity from the rest of the room, Morgan shook his head. "That's unlikely, I know. I'm just saying, Emily, the Batman's appearance wasn't coincidence."

Emily pursed her lips. "Of course, they're related. Batman was looking for Zsasz, Morgan! That's what he does, find bad guys. And apparently faster than we do."

Morgan's mouth snapped closed when he realized that he'd actually set himself up for that one.

Prentiss patted his shoulder. "Morgan, I'm not saying he's a good guy. He's a vigilante. I'm just saying that we might be able to use him to get to Zsasz. Obviously, he had the same information that we had, but quicker. He got there before we did, he had to have. Either there's a leak in our information or he has his own means."

"You might be right about that," Morgan agreed, "but using one unsub to catch another…"

"Is something we do on a regular basis," Emily snapped.

Reid paid little attention, as the team had already heard this conversation once, over the speakerphone nearly half an hour earlier. Instead, the young agent found himself once more circling the endless questions in his mind. As a child, and as an adult, Reid had a hard time keeping knowledge to himself. When he discovered something fascinating, he felt the need to share it with the world. But there were some secrets, like his mother's, that we could hold on to.

Reid took a breath. "The Batman is…" He choked. The team stared at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "…is obviously getting more sleep than we are," he finished.

Hotch nodded. "Reid's right," he said. "I've arranged for us to return to the hotel today. Security has been doubled there. The commissioner insisted we change locations but…"

"Avoiding the Joker would likely anger him, cause him to become more violent if he plans on sending us another message," Gideon concluded.

"I'd prefer we go in shifts," Hotch picked up, "but, at the moment, that might not be possible. I suggest you all get some sleep. Detective Stephens will cover the department and keep us updated of any new information."

Morgan opened his mouth to protest, and Hotch raised a warning brow. "Derek," he said, "officially, you should be in a hospital right now. Do you really want to question me?"

Morgan's mouth closed tight.

"What about you?" Prentiss asked.

Hotch avoided her eye. "I took an hour on the break room sofa while you were gone. J.J.'s busy trying to keep the connection between Victor and the Joker out of the news. She has a few phone calls to finish up. We'll meet you at the hotel later and possibly switch out, if the need arises."

Reid had already pulled his coat free and slipped it over his lank form. He hoped his slight of hand had served him well in pocketing the folded picture of Bruce Wayne. "Sounds good to me. I'm beat," he excused, slipping past the group, and out the door.

Morgan turned, staring after the unusually quiet young agent. "What was that about?"


	9. Chapter 8: My, Your Ears Must be Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid decides to pay a visit to Wayne Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 8**

**My, Your Ears Must Be Red**

Room 422. Once more.

Reid didn't really mind that they would still be staying at The Menagerie. Gideon and Hotch were correct in their assessment that the Joker would likely take avoidance as a challenge. Still, the same room? A chill ran over Reid's fingertips as he pushed down the lever and opened the main door.

The light was already turned on, thankfully. The ivory carpet clean of cards. The room itself, it turned out, was light in color, modern, luxurious. However, Reid's stomach begged him not to stay. He disobeyed…for the moment, stepping within the threshold. His coat still on, he walked to the bed and collapsed, his back against the feather mattress cover beneath, his wide eyes on the ceiling above.

Bruce Wayne, infamous billionaire playboy, owner of Wayne Enterprises - owner of this very hotel - was quite possibly a mask-wearing vigilante breaking the law on a daily basis. And, according to the information Commissioner Gordon supplied, he was also a murderer. Reid had, frankly, had crazier theories. Most of which were proved true. And it had taken Reid only a quick search of the Wayne family history, to note that Bruce fit the profile perfectly. Reid, judging from his own brief meeting with the man without a mask, realized how easily Wayne slipped from being one person to the other.

 _If,_ Reid reminded himself, if his theory was even correct.

It could have been simple coincidence that Bruce Wayne was at the meeting that promised the reveal of Batman. His reactions could have been purely circumstantial. His wealth, tragic family history, his fame, all shared with another Gothamite, the real Batman.

Reid told himself it was that little fragment of doubt that kept him from telling his team about Wayne. But that was a lie. At least, partly a lie. He touched the pocket holding the picture he'd taken from the PD's files, not needing to unfold it to remember it exactly. Why had he stolen it? In hopes that his team wouldn't put together the same theory before Reid had proved or disproved it?

That wasn't how the team worked. How the BAU worked.

Swallowing deeply, he sat up, forcing his exhaustion down. It had been seven minutes. Seven minutes was plenty of time for Gideon and Morgan, for Prentiss, to settle into their own rooms. Reid stood, rushing towards the door with determination written across his face. He rode the elevator down to the ground level and switched his phone to silent. Outside, at the front of the golden sign announcing The Menagerie, a yellow taxi cab was waiting.

Reid walked directly to it and slid inside. "I, uh, I need to go to The Gotham Palisades," he said, his words trembling slightly. "Do you know where Wayne Manor is?"

***

To say that Derek Morgan was frustrated would be an understatement. As dog tired as he felt, his adrenaline was still pumping from the near miss at the East Docks, and his mind was reeling over a few too many unanswered questions. Over twenty-four hours without closing his eyes, and he found himself sprawled out over his bed, unable to sleep.

Derek rolled over the too-comfortable-to-be-legal mattress and stared at the cell phone sitting on his bedside table. It didn't ring. It didn't vibrate. No matter how much he willed it to. With a sigh, he finally reached for the silent device and pressed a number.

"Oh, my chocolate stud, I always knew you were dreaming about me," Garcia answered. "Tell me you sleep in the buff."

Morgan snorted. "How'd you know I was supposed to be sleeping? Or have you went straight from genius to psychic?"

Garcia chuckled. "Honey, don't you know I have a tracking device planted in those gorgeous military boots of yours?" Morgan blinked, only half certain she was kidding. "Of course, it could also be," Garcia added, "because Hotch sent me a text message telling me that you needed a few hours of shut eye. I think the boss doesn't want me calling you after curfew, lover boy."

Derek couldn't help the smile on his face. He wasn't sure when Hotch had become a "dad figure" for the rest of the team… "I promise, baby girl, I'll get my beauty rest in."

"Good, because I hear six packs melt off after forty-eight hours of use, and we know the whole world would be feeling that loss."

Her fingers clicked against a keyboard. The technical analyst stopped doing her magic for no man, not even Derek Morgan. Morgan sat up against the headboard, deciding to cut to the chase.

"Penelope," he began.

"Oh, 'Penelope' is it? Yup, you're definitely about to ask me something private. Thank goodness this is a secure line. Go on - I promise to lie if you ask me what I'm wearing."

Morgan's bit his lip, tempted play on, but went back to topic. "Did Reid call you earlier today, ask you to look up any information for him?"

"Nope," Garcia replied, "and I didn't call our littlest G-man about any new info, either. Why do you ask?"

Derek sighed. He'd really hoped it would be that easy. "When Emily and I came back to the PD, Reid was acting strange, like he was hiding something. The rest of the team noticed it too. I though it might be about something he found."

"If it was, he must have found it at the police department," Garcia said. Derek could practically see the frown on her face.

Morgan shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe it wasn't about the case at all. I try to not pry, we all do, but after what happened after the Hankel case, I just don't like it when our boy decides to keep secrets."

"My studly hero, you have to trust our dear Dr. Reid," Garcia insisted. "Let him come to you."

Morgan smirked. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I just worry about him - and with a case like this…"

"Dearest, if you're about to remind me about the crazed clown, I beg you, recall that I recall." Garcia sounded closer when she added, "I'm glad you worry. Someone has to look after our little family. But I worry about you, too, so please, I beg of you, invite the sandman in and get some sleep. I don't want you drowsy while tailing a serial killer."

"Thanks, sweetness," Morgan finished. "Keep me updated."

"Sleep well, my prince."

***

The clouds had passed, the gray shadow in the sky making way for pale snow clouds that brightened the backdrop behind the manor. And manor was exactly the right word for the Wayne estate. A fortress of stone and gables, turrets and parapets, the manor looked as old as its Old Gotham architecture, the signs of its renovations seen only in the telltale appearance of fresh landscaping, of construction equipment being removed from the premises.

Reid's mouth dried simply looking at the manor. Such a looming entrance face was, no doubt, meant to intimidate, and it was successful. For a split second, Reid considered calling the taxi back, but his Arabic chauffeur had already sped away with a good portion of the agent's spending money. With little choice left, Spencer climbed the steps to the front door and knocked twice.

Impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet, Reid quickly scanned the doorway, spotting a small, well hidden camera some way up the wall, pointed directly at the front entrance. When the cab had rolled past the iron gates onto the Wayne estate, he'd spotted similar security. Which made perfect sense, whether the Batman was living within these walls or not, but Reid felt unnerved by the thought of being filmed; he was certain he could somehow blame Garcia for his paranoia. There was no doubt in his mind that, if asked, she could find him this very instant, standing on a doorstep with his secret theory ready to fall out of his mouth.

The door opened and Reid resisted the urge to jump. A butler in a well made suit stood in greeting, one of his drowsy eyes wider than the other when he looked over Reid's thin form and spotted the sizable Colt at his belt. The manservant was an older gentleman, his hair silver and his face creased with the passing years, but he appeared spry.

"Hi," Reid blurted, smiling briefly in an attempt to hold down his nervousness, "my name is Dr. Spencer Reid, I'm with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the F.B.I. I'm here to speak with Mr. Bruce Wayne." He fumbled for his badge.

Alfred blinked in ill-contained surprise. "Is Master Wayne expecting you?" he asked, cheek twitching slightly.

"No. He shouldn't be." Reid quickly pocketed his hands to keep from fiddling with his freezing fingers. Wasn't the butler supposed to let him into the foyer…where it was warm? That's what always happened in the movies. "But it's important that I speak with him."

"Master Wayne is not in the Manor at the moment. Perhaps," Alfred replied, his British accent clear, "it would be better for you to return at a later time. Do you have Master Wayne's private number…?"

"Actually," Reid interrupted, "no, I don't. But I think it would be better if we speak immediately. Face to face. It concerns the case my team is working on. I believe Mr. Wayne may be pivotal in ascertaining certain information on the Joker… and on the vigilante known as the Batman."

Reid held back a shiver when a freezing gust of wind swept past him. Alfred smiled tightly at the young man.

"I know Master Wayne will want to be of any help possible to the F.B.I.," he said, and stepped back from the door, gesturing within. "Please, do come in, Dr. Reid."

Reid followed Alfred into a broad sitting room where two wingback chairs sat not far apart from one another in front of a fireplace. At the manservant's request, Reid slid off his coat and unfurled his purple scarf, giving them to Alfred, and taking a seat.

"Will you require anything to drink, Dr. Reid?" Alfred asked.

"No, thank you," Reid sputtered, still on the edge of the chair's seat. "Is there any way you could contact Mr. Wayne, let him know I'm here?"

Reid chewed his lip, regretting his decision to come, too late.

"Master Wayne should arrive back shortly," Alfred assured. "However, I'll call him and let him know he has a guest. He will be very anxious to meet you, I'm sure."

"Oh," Reid swallowed, "we've met actually."

Alfred simply tilted his head to one side in a sort of half nod, and dismissed himself.

Reid balanced his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to stare after the older man. There was no doubt in his mind - the tight expression, the examination, the grip of knotted fingers over Reid's coat, checking the pockets. This man was more than a servant, he was a part of the family. He was protective of Bruce. If Bruce Wayne was truly Batman, the butler knew.

***

It was only late afternoon, but the time of year and the grayness of the city tricked Jim's mind into thinking night was close at hand. For some reason, the darkness seemed like a countdown, as if some opportunity, some chance would be lost by sunset. As if time was running out. A silly thought, but not one the commissioner could control.

"Wasn't sure you'd come," Gordon said.

The Batman stepped across the rooftop, approaching Jim from behind, but there was no malice in the quiet movement. "You called," the Batman said, his voice more of a growl.

Gordon heard it and couldn't help but remember the profile the team had given. The voice was like the mask, they'd noted. It was hiding something he'd recognize. The commissioner wasn't sure he wanted to recognize it, so he hoped the Batman wouldn't let the gruffness slip.

"But I didn't use the old method," Gordon replied. And smiled shortly, tapping the base of the spot light with one foot. The shattered covering hadn't been replaced over the months. Nor had the pieces been removed, the area cleaned. It was exactly as it had been after Dent's death. "You got my message about the F.B.I. then? About how close they are?"

Batman's head fell forward slightly. Gordon looked over his shoulder, caught the movement. Took it as a nod. "Thank you for saving Agent Morgan's life," Gordon said, his voice nearly lost on the crisp current. "He's a good friend of mine…Well, used to be, in another life. Still, he's a good man."

Batman's acknowledgment was silence. The figure in black took a step forward. "I need you to keep them away from Zsasz's old hotspots," he said.

Gordon pinched his lips between thumb and index finger, pulling down to feel the two days of overgrown facial hair filled with too much gray. "That's going to be a problem. Detective Stephens is tipping off the F.B.I. He's not dirty, opposite in fact. He's suspicious of me. Knows I've been leaning this manhunt in the wrong direction."

"Will he tell the agents?" Batman wanted to know.

Gordon shrugged. "Eventually. Hopefully not in time to distract them from this mess with the Joker. They're putting way too much effort into finding you. They think you're the reason the Joker's doing all this. Finding you will find him."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"They may be right."

Gordon turned, throwing up a hand in warning. "Don't. Don't even think of it, you hear me? Gotham needs Batman, whether it knows it or not. That's why we've done all we've done over these past few months. That's why we've let you take the fall for Dent, and you damned well know it." At the memory, Gordon had to look away. Pain was written across his face. It wasn't right. How many times had he reminded himself how wrong, how selfish it was to destroy Batman for the sake of the city hero's image. But it was for the greater good. Wasn't it? "These agents are good, too damn good at what they do. You try to give yourself over to them, you try to work with them, and they'll find out who you are. They'll arrest you, whether you've saved one of their own or not. They don't take vigilantism lightly."

When Gordon looked up, Batman was gone, and the sky was a bright coral.

"Damn it," Jim muttered.

Batman was two buildings away when he stopped to check his phone, the reason why he had cut the meeting with Gordon short.

"Alfred," Batman said, his voice still gravelly. The Batman was Batman, friend or not.

Alfred cleared his throat. "I do so hate to disturb you, Master Bruce, but we have a guest currently waiting in the sitting room for you. He claims you've met. A Dr. Spencer Reid."

Batman stared down at the screen. Alfred had sent him a clip from the security feed at the manor of a thin young man bundled in an over-sized coat outside the main door.

"Is it just me," Alfred noted, "or are F.B.I. agents getting younger these days?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Batman ended. He paused, hearing a siren in the distance. His frown deepened. "Make that twenty minutes."


	10. Chapter 9: Dr. Spencer Reid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid puts his cards on the table, not realizing that, for his team, the game is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 9**

**Dr. Spencer Reid**

Eventually, Reid had taken Alfred, as he had introduced himself, up on his offer of a drink and the butler brought out a bottle of one of Greenland's finest glacial waters to pour into a glass for the young agent. Alfred, it seemed, didn't realize that impatience, genius, and youth would be a combination that would keep him occupied for the next ten minutes.

"…And then, in a recent study, 45% of bottle water was discovered to be no different from tap water, though the purchasing companies, of course, usually applied an additional filtration system before bottling," Reid politely paused to take a sip, but didn't stay quiet long enough for Alfred to escape. "One of the most popular beliefs concerning gourmet waters, though, is that it's taken from a clean source, untouched by mankind, but what people forget is that human-caused pollutants are more than a few decades old and, what with the freezing and thawing seasons in the…"

Alfred raised a finger to stop the young agent. "Dr. Reid, I _do_ hate to interrupt you, but I believe Master Bruce has arrived home."

Reid paled, quickly bending to look over the wingback side of his chair. Just as the butler had predicted, he could hear the sound of laughter in the hallway outside the sitting room. The doubled doors opened, and Bruce stepped through with a young woman in a tight pencil skirt and blazer, her hair in a loose bun, rectangular glasses drawing attention from her round face. She had a PDA in her hands, typing in information, but her gaze wasn't on the device but on the billionaire at her side. Bruce's infectious smile was that of a man smitten, but it was also as fake as the young woman's French-tipped fingernails.

"…But so long as we don't run out of wine, it should be fine," Bruce was saying, some ghost of a chuckle finishing the statement. He turned to see his manservant standing beside Dr. Reid's chair, and tapped his forehead in surprise. "Oh, I'd completely forgotten! Megan, it looks like we'll need to finish at a later time. I have a visitor."

Megan, the young woman, nodded, excusing herself and shutting the doubled doors behind her.

Reid fought hard not to grin. If this was a charade, it was a good one. Which also meant that Bruce Wayne was one of most convincing unsubs he'd ever met...The thought left Reid more somber.

Bruce strode forward. "So sorry you had to wait, Dr. Reid. Alfred called and told me you'd stopped in, but I was so caught up in discussions with Megan, my party planner. I'm hosting a gala to celebrate the completion of the manor. You and your team should really consider coming, if you're still in the city, of course."

"Oh?" Reid swallowed, collecting himself. When Bruce offered, he took the extended hand, shaking it briefly, before pocketing his fingers. Reid's brow wrinkled. "When is the gala?"

Bruce gestured for Reid to take his seat, and then found his own, casually crossing his legs. "Tomorrow evening."

Reid's grin was slightly crooked when he shook his head. "Really? Seems like a bad time to host a party," Reid noted. "It being a festivity amongst Gotham's highest. No doubt the guests will be costumed? Masked even? With someone as theatric as the Joker on the loose, well, it would seem like such an event was practically begging for the criminal to show his face."

Bruce balanced his chin on his hand and leaned to one side in thought. "You think so?" Bruce asked.

Reid could hear another question there, one unasked. It made him nervous. "I'm a profiler," Reid said, swallowing, "it's kind of my job to know these things."

Though the fireplace was popping and hissing, the air was suddenly somewhat chillier. The butler took a step closer to Bruce, pouring a second glass of the overpriced water. Reid watched him from the corner of his eye. If Batman was what the media made him out to be, he had a reason to worry. Suddenly Reid realized it hadn't been a very good idea to not leave any indication of where he'd gone. If something were to happen, his team wouldn't be able to find him in time…Reid pushed that thought down, convinced that his own profile on the Batman was the correct one.

Still, he knew he wasn't imagining the darkened look in Bruce's eyes, but what he was surprised to see was a slight, almost undetectable, nod of approval from the other man. Wayne hadn't expected Reid to realize the gala's purpose so quickly.

"Alfred," Bruce said. The butler looked down with a raised brow. "Could you catch Megan if she hasn't left yet. Tell her that I'll be rescheduling the gala for another time."

Alfred hesitated only a moment, looking from the agent to his master, before taking a polite step back and exiting the room.

Bruce took a sip of water, gently placing the glass back down on his side table. His gaze was downcast, as if looking at his own reflection. "How are you, Dr. Reid? Did you get any sleep at all?"

Referring to the hotel. Reid's lips tightened into a thin line. Bruce was trying to establish doubt, make him believe that his "crazy" theory was due to sleeplessness. It was a good tactic, but Reid had had nearly a half hour since arriving at the manor to doubt himself, and doubt he had, but he had remained firm, because of what his team had taught him: instincts were there for a reason.

"Not yet," Reid admitted. He smiled awkwardly, unable to stop from fiddling with his own long fingers. "But, Mr. Wayne, I'm not here to…"

"Bruce," the man interrupted.

Reid blinked. "Bruce," he tested, "I'm here to discuss the case."

Bruce's eyes widened slightly. Ever the constant actor. "How could I possibly help you, Dr. Reid? What would I know about the Joker?"

"Maybe nothing," Reid admitted. He chewed his lip, hunched forward to draw Wayne's eyes. "Of course, you were hosting the last party that the Joker… crashed, though you were never interviewed after the event. I believe it was a fundraiser, correct? For Harvey Dent?"

The wince was unmistakable. "It was a horrible night," Bruce commented. Sincere. "But I don't see how I could possibly help you. There were a few hundred people at the fundraiser. I'm sure they told you exactly what happened."

Reid nodded. "They did mention that you weren't there for most of it."

"Not one of my finer moments. But, what is it they say in your field?" Bruce brushed off his false shame with a wave of his hand. "Fight or flight, I believe it is?"

"Yes," Reid replied. "That's it exactly. While you were away at the fundraiser, the Batman arrived. But, I'm sure you were aware of his appearance." Reid tightened his fingers together, forming a solid, bloodless fist that hung between his knees. He didn't wait for Bruce to answer. "Of course, the Batman was very successful at keeping up with the Joker during his last spree. Which is why the case has evolved to include more than just the Joker. My team has profiled the Batman as well, hoping that they'll stand a chance of catching the Joker with the vigilante in custody. They want to take away the Joker's obsession."

Reid paused, waiting for a response, his pleading eyes intense as they attempted to look through the billionaire's façade.

Bruce smiled gently, still confused. "I'm sure your team is doing all it can to save Gotham," he said. "But I don't understand how you believe that Bruce Wayne could possibly help you catch the Joker. Or the Batman."

"Actually I think he, you, could be of great use to us. See, I think you might know him, the man he is without the mask. You probably travel in the same circles." Reid cleared his throat, back to business. He saw Bruce Wayne's protest coming, and cut him off short. "We developed a base profile for the Batman. Most significantly, we noted that he hides his face because he's recognizable to a good portion of the Gotham public. Public figure, perhaps. A celebrity, maybe. He's also wealthy, based on his weaponry, his uniform, his gadgetry. Or he has a wealthy benefactor. He's in his late twenties to early forties. Comes from a family sharing a tragic history, but the tragedy isn't a recent one. Batman has been training years for what he does. Also, he's alone, unwilling to trust more than the select few." Reid paused, taking a breath to insure that his voice wouldn't shake. "Does that remind you of anyone you know, Bruce?"

Reid's body tensed, his hand prepared to go for his gun, if required. Now was the time, when the pressure was applied, that he should start to see a glimpse of the man's more violent nature, if it existed in Bruce Wayne as well as in his Batman persona. But Bruce only released his hand, letting it fall along the length of the chair's arm in a loose grip.

"No one comes to mind," he replied.

Reid argued with himself over his next course of action. More pressure? A full confrontation? Or should he allow his gentle prod to fester within Wayne until he decided to take further measures as Batman? Reid somehow doubted that simply accusing the man in front of him would lead to any more than an argument and retreat. No, there had to be a way for Reid to get something more conclusive…

"Bruce," Reid broke eye contact, staring down to engage sympathy. "If you do know something. If you know of someone who might be a friend who fits the profile, you need to be aware that Batman has been accused of several crimes. Vigilantism, as I'm sure you know, is frowned upon. But, there's also the murders that occurred surrounding the death of Harvey Dent." His gaze lifted, watching Bruce carefully. "But I'm not entirely certain that the Batman is responsible for all that he's been accused of. We won't know that for certain, though, until we actually hear Batman's side."

"Batman," Bruce said, carefully, "is a loon in a costume. And Harvey Dent was a friend of mine."

There was more coming. Reid could almost hear the wheels turning as Bruce gauged his answer, and his study of the man was so intense, that he almost didn't feel his cell phone vibrating within his pants pocket.

Reid coughed, and pulled the phone free, glancing at it once before he realized it was a message he needed to read.

"J.J." he muttered.

"From your team?" Bruce asked. His voice was clearer, stronger. "Has something happened?"

Reid opened his messages: _Where are you? Meet in front of the hotel in 20. Joker's been spotted._

"Maybe," was Reid's quiet reply. He stood up. "I have to go--"

Reid could have slapped himself. He needed to call a cab. There was no way it could arrive and get him to the hotel in time. He was about to dial J.J.'s number when Bruce spoke up, seemingly reading his mind.

"Alfred can drive you back to the city," Bruce offered. "It would be no trouble at all."

Reid wanted to decline, but one thought of Hotch's intense glare was enough. "Thank you."

With a flick of his wrist, Reid pulled free a card, handing it to Bruce. "In case you think of someone," he said.

Bruce stared at it briefly, then pocketed it. "Say, where is your team? Do they always send their agents alone?" Reid stiffened, but Bruce brushed off his own questions. "Never mind, you have somewhere else to be. Good luck, Dr. Reid."

Reid tipped his head, and walked out, releasing a very anxious breath. Explaining where he'd been to J.J. wasn't going to be a pleasant experience, of that much he was certain. With one final, uncertain glance at Bruce, he was sure of one thing: he was going to have to lie to her.

***

Detective Teddy Stephens had been a heavy smoker for fifteen years of his life. The process of quitting had been a long and difficult one, but with a little push from his wife and kids, he'd managed. And he'd stayed off his death sticks for five years. Then he lit up again, once he'd been cleared by the MT's the night the Joker had escaped in his custody. For a few weeks, he'd went back to his two pack a day routine, but slowly, as Gotham began to calm down after the clown's chaotic spree, Stephens had weaned himself down to two cigarettes a day. _Two._

He was on his fifth when Agent Hotchner stepped outside the doors to the Major Crime Unit, and found him perched in the God-forsaken freezing cold shade of the building.

"You wanted to speak to me," the agent said.

Stephens frowned. He hadn't asked to speak to the man. Hell, he hadn't even told anyone else where he'd went. Still, he somehow wasn't surprised that the agent had managed to track him down.

Hotch stared the detective down, hands balanced at his waist. He broke the contact long enough to check over his shoulder for unwanted listeners. When he found none, his mouth opened.

"Is there something you know about the Commissioner's relationship with the Batman?" Hotch deadpanned.

Stephens nearly choked on the puff of smoke unfurling from his lips. The F.B.I. could be damned direct when the mood hit them. Granted, Stevens had been hoping he'd catch their attention at the profile.

Stephens put out his cigarette, pocketing the dead butt, and wiped his nose with a short sweep of his thick fingers. "Other cops, they know more than me. I just know what I've noticed, even before he became commish'."

Hotch's voice was low but clear. "Tell me what you've seen."

Stephens released a sigh. "I know Gordon had some way of communicating with Batman. Used to signal him with a spotlight. Officially, Batman was to be arrested on sight for years now, but no effort was really put into finding him, not before what happened with Dent." The detective paused. "When Batman killed those people, though, Gordon made a big show of starting the manhunt, destroying the spotlight. Cutting ties. I been a cop a long time, Agent Hotchner. I know the look that would have been in my eyes if the Batman had killed Dent in front of my family. Threatened my kids. And Gordon _didn't_ have that look."

"What are you saying, Detective?"

"Nothin'." Stephens shook his head. "I just think your team might want to watch what they say in front of Commissioner Gordon. Especially when it concerns the Batman. Cause you don't know who's going to hear about it."

Hotch nodded, staring past the detective in thought. After a moment, he pulled free his phone, dialing a number. His brow wrinkled in thought when he was sent to voicemail.

"What's wrong?" Stephens asked.

"Have you see Agent Jareau?" Hotch asked.

Stephens shook his head. "Why?"

"We were supposed to ride to the hotel together after she finished meeting with her media contacts. Her phone's turned off." Hotch swallowed hard, quickly dialing Gideon's number. Even in the cool air, tiny beads of sweat began to crop along his hairline.

"Maybe she's still inside," Stephens suggested. "Might have fallen asleep in the break room."

Hotch stared at the man, awaiting Gideon's answer. "You don't understand, Detective Stephens. J.J… Agent Jareau _never_ turns her phone off."

***

Reid stepped out of the town car, giving his farewell to Alfred. The ride back into the city had been surprisingly quiet. Throughout the years, Reid had come to realize that not everyone appreciated his random spouts of knowledge or hearing statistics. Especially hearing statistics. But that was not the reason why he had pushed down the urge to ask Alfred about Bruce's childhood, about the butler's relationship with his young employer, about Batman. No, the reason he had kept so quiet was that his mind had been incredibly loud. Question after question. Scenario after scenario. Reid felt as if he'd covered each and every one, trying to find a way to not tell his team that he suspected Bruce Wayne.

And, as annoyed as Reid was by the mere idea, he, himself, wasn't sure why he felt the need to keep his suspicions quiet.

Except that it meant keeping the Batman out there. On their side. Not behind bars.

Reid stepped out without a word and watched the town car roll away. Releasing a clouded breath, he stared across the street at the hotel building's splendid height. Surprisingly, he didn't see any of his team out front, or even through the glass doors of the front lobby. Odd.

He was barely aware of a van pulling up to park a space away from where he stood, shivering in the cold.

"Hey, kid!" a voice called.

Reid was about to turn toward it when gust of hot air fell from above. The sound of the blast registered a split-second later. When Reid looked up, he saw flames dancing from the side of The Menagerie, spitting smoke and debris. He counted the floors without meaning to: the fourth, the fourth floor. Not the floor Gideon and Derek and Emily were staying on… Before he could sigh in relief, a thought occurred to him. He calculated the number of windows, and though it was a mere guess…

"Is that my room?" he muttered.

_"Hey, kiddo."_

Reid stilled, feeling something sharp at his back. A hand gripped him at the shoulder, holding him against the blade. The fingers moved down his arm, patting his stomach until they found his Colt. The weapon was pulled free.

" _Shh,_ now." A voice whispered into his ear. Reid winced. He knew that voice. He'd heard it on the recordings from earlier. It was unmistakable.

"Joker," Reid managed.

The chuckle against his hair sent a chill up Reid's spine. The agent glanced to the side, looking for a passerby, but the profiler inside him knew better than to shout out for help. The Joker would shoot first, laugh about it later.

"Well, I, _um,_ hear," the clown whispered, "that he has been _spotted_ nearby, Dr. Reid."

Reid barely registered the significance of those words before the Joker shoved him forward. The van rolled up, just in time, the side panel door sliding open. Two men in clown masks grabbed the young agent and pulled him inside.

The Joker hopped in over Reid's lanky legs, smiling brightly at the burning hotel before blowing it a painted kiss and slamming the door shut. The van drove past the approaching cop car, the officers deaf to the pained shouts from within the vehicle.


	11. Chapter 10: Victimology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all of the madmen are in the madhouse. But, the ones who are might be running the place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit. I also don't own the rhyming lines from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

**Chapter 10**

**Victimology**

***

_For this must ever be_

_A secret, kept from all the rest,_

_Between yourself and me._

***

This wasn't supposed to be the way it happened. She was the one the victims came to for help. She wasn't supposed to be one of them.

The thought passed through J.J.'s mind, but she knew there was no merit behind it. The thing about victims was, they could be anyone. And thinking about how wrong this situation felt wasn't going to save her life.

J.J. winced, the pain in her head intense. Had she been hit over the head with something? Not remembering, that was a bad sign. The dusty taste of a gag was filling her mouth, nearly scraping the back of her throat. Movement was impossible, the blood flow in her hands and feet almost cut off by the straps holding her the chair. She listened, first, for the sound of her captor's pacing, before slowly opening her eyes wide enough to see. Her vision was slightly blurred, the edges of her world black, and she wasn't sure if the cause was the minor concussion she was no doubt sporting or her shadowed surroundings.

She quickly took them in: it was a room in a house. Bushes crawled up the length of one blackened window. It was night outside. How long had she been out? She pushed that to the back of her mind and went back to examining the room. A house bedroom. The bed itself was no more than a box of springs, its top layer ripped to shreds. Once, this had been a nice house, middle income or higher, but now it was decimated, the carpet pulled free from the floor, the walls covered in graffiti. The power wasn't working. Gas lamps were sitting on two boxes placed at either side of the bed frame, some mocking form of normality in the arrangement.

But for her short study, there was nothing that told her exactly where she was located. No way of recognizing it if she survived and needed to return. If. If she survived.

J.J. felt her body seize up at the notion of not surviving. She was an F.B.I. agent. There were always risks. But that didn't make the possibility any less terrifying.

The pacing stopped. J.J. forced herself to look, to stare at the man. He had his back to her, his front to the box of springs. His hands were moving in front of him, unbuttoning his shirt. When he finished, he slipped it from his shoulders and laid it up upon the bed.

He turned, and she knew him. She had been printing pictures of his face for most of the day. And, now, she would never forget it.

Zsasz stared at her, watching her reaction as she took in the healed stripes across his skin. Scars. Each one from either a hit for Falcone or…from his own collection. He ran a finger over his abdomen, where a set of tally marks hadn't been marked through.

"Where should I put you?" he mused, as if deciding where to place a piece of furniture. One corner of his mouth curled into a half-grin. "Ah," he said, "I have a spot, a perfect spot. Would you like to see it, Jennifer?"

As soon as he said her name, all that she'd learned of profiling left her mind. For her life's sake she couldn't think of the proper reaction in this particular situation. All she could think of was an image of Spencer. It had only been a few months, hadn't it? When she had been watching him on the screen, tied to a chair, his tormentor standing over him. The team had barely gotten there in time...

J.J. swallowed hard, trying to find resolve, but her throat was dry, tickled by the cloth.

Zsasz reached into his pocket and pulled free a phone, the model a few years old. Prepaid, she had no doubt. He stared at its open face a moment before sliding it back down again.

"Jennifer, Jennifer," he breathed, "you're not worth giving a name, you know." He smiled faintly and crouched down, pulling the gag free from her lips and pressing a dirty finger over her mouth, encouraging her to stay quiet. "We have time to talk. I haven't had that luxury in quite a while, but my employer is running a bit late at the moment. Which is good for us. Both of us. You're going to appreciate this, Jennifer."

J.J. wanted to spit the musty taste onto his face, but she resisted the urge. This soon into it… she _needed_ to keep him talking.

"Appreciate it?" she asked, barely holding back her disgust.

"My work," Zsasz clarified.

Work. She could use that. "Do you know what I do, Mr. Zsasz?" she asked.

He was fully on his knees in front of her, his elbows propped on her knees, like a child waiting for a story. But he looked nothing like a child. The gleam in his eyes seemed to indicate an insurmountable level of hate, despite, for her.

"Yes," he said, softly, staring up at her. "I know exactly what you do for a _living,_ Jennifer. It makes you feel like you're special, like you're doing something that gives you life. But it doesn't. You're just like all the rest, aren't you, Jennifer? A zombie like all the others, following your daily grind."

J.J. didn't like that he was repeating her name. He wasn't dehumanizing her, in fact her humanity seemed to be the thing he wanted to rid her of.

"You're not special," Zsasz explained. "Not from day to day. Not right now. In the unfolding of the grand scheme. You are simply a distraction. One of many."

"Distraction from what?" J.J. asked.

Zsasz pushed himself off of the floor, knuckles pressing painfully into J.J.'s thighs when he lifted himself. He encircled her chair, ran his fingers through her hair lovingly. When his voice reappeared, though, he was further away, standing in the shadow of the room, just out of her sight.

"I'm so happy you were the one," he said. "You, of all of them, need liberating most of all. From that pretty flesh bag you haunt. It could have been any one of you, but it was your room. My employer, see, he left it up to chance, an homage to an old associate. Said to take whichever agent was in the room with the mirror."

Zsasz stepped out of the darkness, the pale yellow gleam of the lamp crawling over his half clothed body. "You were just the luckiest, I suppose."

"The Joker," J.J. said, more to herself. Her blue eyes were unblinking, steady on the man across the room. "Mr. Zsasz, you can't trust him. You know that you can't trust him."

Zsasz grinned. "No, I suppose not. But I don't need to trust him to do what I'm meant to do. To do my work." Another step. And Jennifer saw why he had moved away. He'd retrieved a razor blade, held hidden between two fingers like a coin. "It's charity. You'll understand when I'm done. You're just another zombie. Waiting from something to happen, something to change in your pathetic existence. I have arrived. I am the change. I am your salvation."

He held the razor against his abdomen and slowly drew it down. A line of crimson remained behind. "A promise," he said, tasting the blood that had spilled onto his finger, "to you, to the one fate chose for me. When the phone rings, Jennifer, I'm going to give you my gift."

***

The concrete was soaked by the hoses, the fire mere embers, a snaking trail of smoke rising between the crowded buildings toward the freedom of the gray-black sky above. Though the sirens had been silenced, emergency lights were still rolling, throwing color over the street and the crowd of onlookers.

The hotel had long since been evacuated and the large space along the sidewalk taped off, the street blocked so that debris could be checked for evidence. It was too loud, though, between the voices and the well enunciated speeches from the on scene reporters and the shouts of emergency workers as they checked the floor for the umpteenth time: Morgan was tempted to cover his ears to block it out.

This was the sound of panic. Gotham, after dark. It reminded the city of the time before heroes, when the night was a sanctuary for criminals and a nightmare for the innocent. A time before Batman roamed the streets.

But for Derek Morgan, his thoughts didn't venture to this city. It was not his home, its citizens not his family. No, he was reminded, instead, of so many bad times, so many hairy situations, where lives had been on the line. And lost. Yet this one seemed so much worse. Because it this fortress of metal in front of him was missing only one room. And that room belonged to Spencer Reid, a man he considered a younger brother.

Not for the first time, Morgan dodged an EMT, referring the paramedic to a half dozen other people with small contusions and breathing issues. He knew Emily was behind him, calling his name, asking him to stand still, but Derek ignored her, almost without realizing it, and snatched the arm of a firefighter as the uniformed man stepped out of the hotel lobby.

"Did they find anything yet?"

The fireman blinked up at the agent, confused until he recalled Morgan's face.

"Did you find a body?" Derek snapped, his fingers unintentionally tightening over the man's jacket. "Was there a body?"

The firefighter didn't reply immediately, called by one of his superiors to the emergency vehicle. "We've still got people looking," he replied, brushing past the agent.

Derek was looking for a wall to throw his fist through. _Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!_ "This isn't happening," he hissed.

Prentiss eased a hand over his shoulder, holding him secure enough to maneuver him back to a waiting cop car. Gideon blocked their path, in his own animated conversation with an officer Derek recognized from the Major Crimes Unit. Gideon frowned, his body tense, and walked away from the cop, toward Emily and Morgan.

"Hotch is on his way," Gideon said. The older agent stopped before he could say more, holding a tight fist to his lips, as if to stop himself from going further. Where was a shutter there, between his mouth and his chest. It was a sob, dry, no tears to follow, but a sob nevertheless.

Morgan recognized the tension in the man, recognized the emotion. Because he was feeling it too.

Reid.

_Shit._

Why'd it have to be Reid's room?

"They haven't found a body yet?" Emily reminded them, her voice clear, not patronizing. The voice she used with victims. "He could have gone out. He could have…"

Morgan's fist finally found a home in the hood of the police car. The agent stayed there, hunched forward over the vehicle, as if catching his breath. "It was the Joker," he said. And they all knew that the statement was unnecessary.

The agents remained silent, the only hint of silence amongst the panicked crowd.

***

The choice was a simple one.

His patients needed him. A doctor's duty to his patients didn't end when they left his office. In fact, his job became even more important once they returned to the outside world. A world not ready for them. A world not ready to provide assistance, to see them as any more than freaks. No, the outside didn't understand, didn't empathize, didn't know how to cure them.

For surely, each one of them could be cured of their madness.

Jeremiah Arkham believed so with all his being. His life was founded upon that ideal. And he would prove to the outside, the harsh misunderstanding outside, that he was correct.

But in order to do so, sacrifices had to be made. For the sake of modern medicine, for the sake of the science of the human mind. And so he left his main office, dismissed the security on the south wing, and pulled the slender bottle of lighter fluid from his coat.

The human mind could not function properly if its needs were not met. It was an elementary concept even the most amateur of psych students understood. A mind in need allowed for certain destructive behavior, but if those needs were met, then the mind could begin its recovery.

The Joker had a need, a simple one. And Jeremiah had promised to provide for his patient. The administrator slid his card into the wing's control panel, typing in four of the five digits required to take control.

"Dr. Arkham?" a voice called. "Mr. Administrator, is that you?"

Jeremiah froze, his gaunt face shadowed from the poorly spaced florescent lighting of the corridor by the rim of his bowler's hat and the bundle of his scarf. His turn was slow, deliberate, and the movement allowed him to hide the bottle of fluid against the fold of his coat. He found Dr. Thomas a few paces behind, nearly running to catch up.

"I was just taking my leave, Harrison," Arkham said tightly.

"Yes, sir, yes," Dr. Thomas huffed, taking in the man's outerwear with a small frown. Nevertheless, he continued his pursuit, coming to a stop only a few feet away. "I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation, though, Dr. Arkham, in the security room."

Jeremiah raised a thin brow. "Surely, it is nothing you cannot take care of, Dr. Thomas. Unless you still find the position of Director too strenuous, of course…"

Harrison's dark skin blanched, he sputtered, "N-no, sir. Only, the cameras, there seems to have been an issue with the south wing of the hospital, as well as the perimeter. A glitch of sorts. I'll send extra men to patrol the area, but until then, I think it best that we all remain in our offices, for our own safety."

Jeremiah's jaw tightened, close to trembling in restrained fury. "No, Harrison. You will do no such thing. A glitch is nothing to worry yourself over."

"But, doctor," Dr. Thomas's eyes drifted past the other man. His brow wrinkled in confusion. "Sir, that access code… it's not to open the outer doors. You must have pressed in the wrong one. That one opens the whole corridor…"

Dr. Thomas's voice trailed off, and he became very quiet, eyes wide with the disturbing thought that… Harrison gasped, the sudden tightness in his side leaving him without air. When he looked down in time to see a pen being pulled from his shirt, dark brown blood spilling out of the wound. The liver, both men had time to reason, before Harrison's legs gave out beneath him.

The Director's fingers reached out, grabbing hold of Jeremiah's coat for support. But the other doctor kicked him away, looking down first in panic, then in unhidden disgust. "Have you ever been successful with any patient at this facility, Dr. Thomas?" he hissed down at the squirming body. "Your methods are incomprehensible, your manner of treatment unfounded and ineffective. I am afraid, Dr. Thomas, that you've been terminated." His frown twitched. "For the sake of the patients," he concluded.

Dr. Arkham stepped back, pressing in the final digit. The doors of the corridor became unlatched, their inhabitants unaware of the change. They would remains so for a few moments longer, Arkham was sure. He reached out to the closest door, and pulled it open. With only a moment's hesitation, he kicked over Dr. Thomas's body, using it to prop open the door.

The patient inside looked up from his seat on the pallet, the glare of his beady eyes barely visible in the poor light. _"How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly he spreads his claws…"_ the man muttered.

"Mr. Tetch," Dr. Arkham called. He removed his hat, gently setting it on top of the body at his feet. The patient jerked to awareness, feet quickly landing on the cold floor. Jeremiah smirked at the movement, understanding the reaction. "Mr. Tetch, 'group' will be held outside this evening. Why don't you gather the others and being the session without Dr. Thomas."

Tetch took a careful step forward, one hand outstretched, curling fingers pointing at the hat. "And welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling claws."

Jeremiah stepped back to the main access door, walking through it before the other patients realized what had taken place. His pace quickened, the first glimpses of anxiousness tearing at his calculating demeanor. The bottle in his sweaty grasp suddenly seemed very heavy. He would have to hurry, if he were to complete the task, if he were to be of any real aid to his patient.

Dr. Thomas… it had been necessary, he assured himself. For the greater good. Jeremiah nodded once, curtly to himself. What was one man's life when it came to the greater good? And no one else need be hurt during the exercise. In the end, when the Joker was cured, many lives, more important lives, will have been saved by that single action.

***

SSA Aaron Hotchner was good at his job. And because he was good at his job, he knew what to expect from the grieving. He knew that this heavy feeling of guilt was natural. That he should be blaming himself. And he was. He knew that, in order to be a professional, he had to squash that emotion, put it away to get the job done. To get the answers he needed. He wished, not for the first time, that he could switch off his soul like so many of the unsubs he arrested.

But when he looked out at his team, loosely gathered in front of a cop car, their expressions lost, devastated, angry, he could not stop the self hate that pulled at every little string inside him. He wished the stony expression that remained a constant fixture on his face was actually reflective of what he felt. It wasn't. He couldn't change that, not now, not ever.

And the hurt was only just beginning.

He hadn't told the team, not yet. Not about J.J.

"Hotch," Morgan looked up, eyes wide, not with surprise but with realization. "Hotch, you can get these guys moving. They won't tell us what's left up there. They've got to clear the area. We need to know if--"

Hotch raised a hand to stop the other agent. "Are there any reported fatalities thus far?" he asked, his voice distant.

Prentiss shook her head. "No bodies were found." And she stared her superior down, knowing he understood the meaning behind those words, before she went on, "There were four serious injuries in two other rooms effected by the explosion. All guests. They've been taken to the hospital."

He didn't need to ask if the explosion was meant to directly effect one room. He already knew the answer. A part of him froze, unsure for a split second where to go from here. Commissioner Gordon placed a hand gently between his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner," Jim said. The man looked a decade older. He stared over his glasses at the rest of the agents. "I'm sorry for what happened here," he continued, "that I called you here in the first place, Derek."

Morgan didn't look at him, unsure of what he might say or do. When he did glance up, his brow was drawn together. "Hotch, where's J.J.?" he asked.

Aaron would have rather of taken a bullet to the stomach at the moment. "She… We're not sure."

Gideon pulled himself from his own thoughts, looking to Gordon, then to Hotch, as if noticing them for the first time. "What do you mean, you're not sure? She was at the precinct. With you."

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing some of the tension there would ease. It didn't. "That's where she was last seen. Her phone has been turned off, and her contact in the media never heard back from her. We have officers checking surveillance from the building and surrounding areas."

Prentiss pushed the breath from her body, putting a balancing hand on Morgan's arm, as if afraid of what the man might do.

But there was no time for reactions. Detective Stephens was jogging up the group, his phone out. "You're going to want to see this," he huffed, holding out the device. "There's been an incident at Arkham Asylum."

Hotch raised a brow, stepping forward. "What sort of incident?"

He didn't hear the reply, though. He only heard the sound of a firefighter as he removed his helmet, telling the coroner that they'd found the remains of a male.

A body.

_Reid._


	12. Chapter 11: Ain't It Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker makes a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 11**

**Ain't It Funny**

For another man, a man without purpose, the suit would have been met with shame, putting it on would have been a chore, walking out in it an embarrassment. But Bruce felt no such thing. Once the cowl fell over his form, both freedom and the heavy weight of responsibility met him with equal footing. He was a Wayne no longer. Money, society, self didn't matter. He became a truer form, he became the Batman.

As was his habit, he released a breath, himself once more, and felt a comfort that was in no way physical.

"Master Bruce, you missed a call. From the hotel."

Batman turned his head in response, thankful that Lucius had made the updates required for the movement not to trigger some small device, and saw Alfred approaching across the slick floor of the newly renovated Cave.

"I know, Alfred," Batman breathed, his voice not quite as hard yet, the costume not complete. "I need to check on one of Zsasz's past hangouts on the east side. As soon as I finish, I'm going to talk to Spencer Reid. I think that, if Batman speaks to him, he can be convinced to…"

Alfred's frown was tight. "Master Bruce," he interrupted. "You need to turn on the monitor." But the butler was already doing that for him. The multiple video feeds buzzed to life and Alfred set the local channel on the largest screen.

Batman took a step forward, watching the scene behind the reporter. Smoke, fire trucks, the hint of flames soon to be extinguished. He opened his mouth to ask, but the answer was before him. He recognized the building. He owned it. The Menagerie.

The reporter, a young Asian woman with a short bob, stood against crime tape, a hand over her ear so she could hear the latest update.

" _…The Menagerie Hotel earlier this evening when an explosion blew out a fourth floor room. Reports are coming that at least four guests staying at the hotel were badly injured, and there is at least one suspected…"_ She paused, tapping her ear to listen in over the outbursts from the crowd surrounding her. " _No longer suspected, authorities are confirming one fatality found at the source of the blast._ "

Batman could feel the old butler's eyes on him, but he refused to turn away from the screen.

" _Susan,_ " a man's voice interrupted. The screen split, showing an immaculately groomed man inside the studio, " _rumors are spreading like wild fire amongst our Facebook and Twitter fan viewers that the explosion was meant to target the F.B.I. unit staying at the hotel. Any word on whether there's any truth to the speculation? And if so, could the fatality be a Federal Agent?_ "

Susan cocked her head, " _We won't know until an official statement has been made. Also, there has been no word yet on what was responsible for the explosion, but, according to sources in the GCPD, foul play is suspected. Rick, that would seem a likely explanation since officers from the Major Crimes Unit arrived on scene almost immediately following..._ "

Batman turned to Alfred, as if looking for a confirmation. Alfred shook his head. "It must have happened moments after I dropped the boy off. I'm sorry, Master Bruce."

There was no reply. Batman turned, ready to walk away, when the news flashed away from Susan at the hotel front and back to the station.

There was a slightly panicked expression on the news broadcaster's face. Rick opened his mouth. " _Breaking news,_ " left his lips, and Batman came to a complete stop, glancing back at the screen. " _We're just getting word_ ," Rick continued, " _trouble at Elizabeth Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A riot broke out only minutes ago when the security system detaining the south wing of the asylum suffered a complete shut down…According to early reports, no detainees have escaped the outside perimeter of the facility, and officials say that the situation is under control. We have our sky cam set up for a better view of the violent attempted break out._ "

The helicopter view was shaky, but the image clear, the bright spot lights dancing over the grounds of Arkham lighting the world below. Patients ran across the yard, dogs chasing them toward the waiting guards. The movement reminded Batman of an anthill met with a rainstorm. Across the roof, though, that was what caught his eye. Flames danced, spread over the gravel dust, an S.O.S. of sorts, written for a bird's eye view. Or a bat's. The words were easy to make out:

**HA HA HA**

"The Joker's had a busy night," Alfred said, his voice as quiet as a whisper.

Batman stiffened, switching off the monitor. "It's a message. For me. For Gotham."

"But what does it say?" Alfred questioned. Before he could receive a reply, he took a quit step forward. "Who are you going to go after? There could be bigger fish than our Mr. Zsasz. If the Joker has plans for Arkham…"

The tension built. Batman's eyes were black with intensity when he turned back. "Or that's what the Joker wants us to believe. This is a game to him."

Alfred raised his head. "Do we call his bluff?"

***

Burning fish hearts. He could smell them. He could hear them popping and searing. They were there, in the room, warding off the devil.

Reid pulled himself from the memory. It wasn't real. It was in the past. No matter how vivid, no matter how much the very thought made him want to vomit, the past was the past, and this place smelled nothing like fish. Plastic, rust, mold: but no searing hearts and livers.

He forced his eyes open, but the light above was bright, blinding, and he winced, turning his head to one side. The last he time he'd regained consciousness after being taken by an unsub, he had been strapped and handcuffed to a chair. This time was different, if only slightly. He was lying down, his body secured by a strap across his waist, looping over his forearms, and another at his knees. Also, it was not Tobias Hankel looming over him.

Truthfully, for a split second, Reid almost missed Hankel.

The light above was blocked by the shadow of his kidnapper's form, and, without realizing it, the agent found himself staring up at the upside down painted face above.

"Well, look who's up past curfew," the Joker announced. His smiled down, the puckered shape of his scars wrinkling at the gesture. "You know, it is a school night, kiddo. Why don't you give me Mom and Pop's number and I'll give 'em a ring. Let 'em know you're going to be out late."

Reid was disoriented. It didn't help that the Joker seemed to be sitting above his head, leaning over him. Spencer could smell popcorn on the criminal's breath. It was an odd observance, but seemed disturbingly fitting: according to the profile, the Joker would find this perfect entertainment. And what better accompaniment to entertainment?

The Joker sat up, slightly, letting the light blind Reid again. "Spencer Reid," he read, and then flapped the ID badge in front of the agent's face. "Been doing a little light reading on you, doctor." He rapped his gloved knuckles over Reid's temple. "The _brain_ of the operation."

If his laugh was any judge, the Joker found this highly amusing. After he'd caught his breath, he leaned forward again, hovering half a foot above Reid's face. Spencer knew this was a delicate situation. One slip was all it would take.

"That's right," Spencer agreed. "I'm Dr. Reid of the Behavior Analysis Unit of the F.B.I." He paused, swallowing hard. "I've, I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Joker. We all have."

"Talk to me? Ya don't say," the Joker replied. He cocked his head, as if curious. "What _ever_ about?"

Reid opened his mouth to speak, and a resounding pop echoed in his ear. The sting on his cheek came secondary. The agent blinked up, realizing he'd been slapped. There was something about the contact that felt worse than the kicks to the gut, the bruising bash to his temple.

"Say again?" the Joker asked, cupping one ear. Reid's jaw twitched and the Joker slapped him again, harder.

Reid felt the humiliation building in his reddened cheeks. He blinked, hoping to shy away the tears that were threatening to form. The Joker reached over him, a tight, clawing vice on the agent's chin, bruising the pale flesh.

"See, kiddo, you're not going to do the talking," he spat. His green hair fell down, a curl tickling Reid's forehead. "You're going to listen. Then I'm going to ask you a simple, simple question and you're going to give me a two word answer."

The grip was loosened and Reid nodded.

"See, kiddo, you are the smart one."

The clown's face disappeared. The Joker sat up, unfolding his legs and sliding off of the conveyor belt. His shoes hit the floor with a loud slap. Without pause, he snatched a pile of papers from a nearby table top, leaving a heavy book behind, and he quickly spun around, back to the agent. A little skip in his footing. Reid had turned his head to follow the movement. The Joker licked a finger and flipped through the forms like a doctor reviewing his charts.

"Eidetic memory," the Joker read, "and an IQ of 187..." He looked up in mock shock, mouthing _"Wow!"_ before glancing back down at the papers. "Doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. Undergraduate degrees in _blah blah blah…_ " The Joker tossed the papers over his shoulder, bored, and leaned down on his elbows, staring at the young man. He sighed, and reached out. Reid flinched, expecting a blow, but, instead, the Joker roughly ruffled his hair. "A little paranoid, aren't you?"

Reid forced his lips closed.

"So, all those titles under your belt and you end up profiling 'bad guys' for the F.B.I.- sounds like a bit of waste, doesn't it?" The Joker mused. "I mean, how can you be absolutely sure that you've found your true calling if all you do all day is stop others from finding theirs?"

The Joker stepped away. Reid craned his neck to see what lay ahead. At the corner of the room, he could see two men, large, burly, their faces hidden by blue and red painted hosiery, but Reid wasn't interested in them or the heavy weaponry laying across their laps. The clown moved along the assembly line, laying molded rubber baby dolls along the conveyor belt. "Speaking of calling…" the Joker noted, continuing his work, "that reminds me. Gotta make a phone call."

He pulled out a cell phone. From the glimpse alone, Reid could tell that it was his own. For a split second, his panic lightened. Garcia could trace the call, could find him. But then he recalled a very important detail: the explosion. His room, incinerated. The implications of that fire finally processed...His team, they'd think he was already dead.

The Joker paused before he dialed the number, taking two steps back and pressing a button on a control panel. Reid jerked forward, the belt below him moving. A strange, stamping noise echoed from ahead. His neck popped at the strain, but he didn't care. He had to see… Ahead of him, a naked doll slid down a short slide, landing under a rotating machine. Two poles jutted down, depositing plastic eyes into the doll's rubber head.

And Reid was four dolls away from the eye punch. He squirmed against his restraints, terror sweeping over him.

"Eidetic memory," the Joker muttered. Speaking up, he continued, "that's a photographic memory, right, kiddo? So, you see something and you have a hard time getting it out of your head. That must just drive you _crazy._ Of course, there's a simple solution to that particular problem."

Three dolls away.

The Joker pressed call, holding the phone to his head and listening to the ring. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if annoyed.

Two dolls.

Reid's managed to still himself long enough to sputter, "You're going to break it." The Joker raised a brow. The agent kept the man's attention, tapping his fingertips against the belt. "The restrains on this belt won't give way at the dumping slide, and even if they did, the slide wouldn't be able to withstand my weight, instead collapsing in on itself and tearing the wash and bolts from the floor support." He forced a calm over his face. "I'll be dumped onto the floor. Unharmed." When the Joker simply stared on, he added, "degree in engineering."

The last doll hit the slide.

The Joker frowned. Rolling his eyes, he pressed the button, and the belt wrenched to an immediate stop. He lazily stepped up to the belt, closing and pocketing the phone once more.

"See, kiddo," the Joker said, "all that wasted potential. _You_ could have made an eye punch machine that would actually pop your eyes like grapes, if you really wanted. It's such a shame you chose something as silly as profiling."

The Joker appeared truly distressed, shaking his head like a disappointed father.

Reid took a nervous breath. "I guess we had different career counselors."

***

A psychopath. Asocial. Compulsive. He lusted for power, control, and blood.

And he could not be reasoned with.

It was not the kind of situation any agent wanted to be in, because for all the profiling, for all the study, there was no way to talk her way out of his grasp, to prove to him that she was a human and not an object. Because it was her very humanity he wished to attack. To destroy.

J.J. knew she had two options. Find a way out or distract him, occupy him, until her team could find her.

She blinked, wincing when her right eye refused to open completely. Zsasz's boredom had led him to try out new methods, a few punches to the face. But he had found no satisfaction in it and had perched himself on the box springs, waiting. The razor glistened in the faint light as he flipped it overtop his fingers, letting it dance up and down his fist. Reid used to do that, with a coin, when he was finishing reports; J.J. hated the man in front of her for ruining that simple memory.

"Cut, cut, cut," he muttered, as if teasing her. "Cut, cut, cut…"

"You're wrong," J.J. said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Zsasz's mantra faded to nothingness. He paused the blade between his fingers.

J.J. swallowed, noting the coppery taste of blood against her gum. "There's meaning in what I do," she said. "Just like there's meaning in what you do."

Zsasz stood, slowly, as if stretching out his back, his wide shoulders, and strolled forward. "There is no meaning. To anything," he replied.

J.J. opened her mouth, but the sound of a phone ringing cut her off. Zsasz pulled the mobile from his pocket, but didn't move to answer, only staring, fixedly, at the blinking screen. It cast an eerie green glow over his face. One. Two. Three. And the ringing came to a quick stop. Zsasz dropped the phone to the floor, no longer in need of it, and stared up at the young agent with a crocodile grin.

"It's time," he said, and stepped forward.

J.J. squirmed against the bindings, her chest heaving with a single breath that refused to escape. Panic pushed her back against the chair, as if she could somehow will the furniture to release her.

Zsasz only shushed with a chiding shake of his head. "None of that now," he cooed. "Your salvation has arrived, Jennifer."

He tapped the razor against her neck, stroking it, but not slicing the pale strip of flesh. "This is my gift to you," he whispered.

J.J. forced a hardness to her face, refusing to look at the man in front of her. A shadow fell over the faint moonlight outside the window. And in a moment of illogical blindness, she thought that it might be death, coming to collect.

The razor bit, a flush of ice against heat as it cut into her throat and threw a red spray over Zsasz's fingertips.


	13. Chapter 12: Not a Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they receive news about J.J., the BAU has no choice but to confront Gordon about the secrets he's been keeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 12**

**Not a Hero**

She was his solace, his guiding light. He never ignored her. _Ever_. And, yet, as his phone buzzed against his palm, Agent Morgan couldn't bring himself to answer it.

Hotch was glancing from the street to Morgan as he drove, a worried expression on his hard face. The unit chief didn't comment, though, and neither did Gideon and Prentiss. In fact, the backseat was entirely too quiet.

 _Garcia_ flashed across the small screen in bold letters. Morgan turned off the phone. Pocketing it. If it was news on the case, she'd call Hotch to update.

Penelope knew the team's status, that Morgan was alive, unharmed. Hotch had called her, asked her to find surveillance footage of the area outside the GCPD precinct. Look for J.J. It had been a teary exchange, but Hotch had raised his voice, asked for her to concentrate on finding their missing agent.

And to forget about Reid. For just the moment.

Morgan closed his eyes, hoping he could push back the darkness filling his mind. But it didn't work that way. When he opened his eyes again, the world was still gray and wrong.

He would call Garcia back. As soon as there was something to report. Something that wouldn't send her crashing. As soon as he could tell her that her best friend wasn't dead.

***

Death didn't wear body armor.

Zsasz slid his blade another quarter-inch before Batman reached him, pulling the serial killer off of the FBI agent with a force that sent him flying into the wall. Zsasz looked up, shock and rage forming on his face. Batman didn't have time for it. Didn't have time for the fight, or the cruel taunts. Didn't have time for the psychotic spiel Zsasz was just _dying_ to unleash.

Batman's glove was hard. Two strides forward and it was pounding into Victor's temple. Two firm hits, and the serial killer collapsed to the floor, blood trickling across his cheek. Batman tugged at his utility belt, pulling out a pair of black cuffs. Zsasz was secured to the bed frame in seconds that seemed to pass like hours.

A part of Batman didn't want to turn. Didn't want to see the body tied to the chair, to know that thirty seconds earlier, thirty seconds of hesitation was all that had stood between saving a life and watching a young woman die. But his wants didn't matter. The Batman did what was needed of him.

J.J. watched him, her eyes unfocused, her body going into shock at the trauma to her neck. Her dim blue gaze set him back into motion. The crusader cupped her wound below her jaw with a tight grip, his free hand cutting loose the twine holding her down.

"Agent Jareau," Batman hissed.

Her eyes rolled back into her head. A trail of crimson soaked through the front of her white buttton-up, and continued its route down to her stomach. The vigilante shook her free, and picked her up, holding her limp body against his chest plate.

"Hold on," he growled. His fingertips tightened against the shallow cut, pinching at the flesh. "Can you hear me, Agent Jareau? I need you to hold on for your team."

J.J. didn't respond.

***

The Joker didn't turn from Reid, but he raised a hand, waving it back. "Boys," he said. The two lackeys stood up, straight, alert. "Take a walk." The hired hands stared at one another, shrugging, but didn't move. The Joker's nostrils flared. "I said, _take a walk!_ " he snapped, spittle flying over the agent.

The two men flew from the factory floor, out a side, worker's exit.

Reid watched the man, his breathing heavy from the sudden shout. Spencer wasn't sure if he should take the criminal's frustration as a good sign just yet.

The Joker ran his thumb along his own bottom lip, following it up his cheek. The thought finished, he slammed his hands on the aluminum work tray against the belt. Reid jumped at the sound, or tried to. The belts bit into his skin, leaving his finger tips prickling with numbness.

"Why," Reid forced himself to breath, "why did you leave the cards in our hotel rooms? I know it's not because you were angry that my team had arrived. You wanted us here. In Gotham."

He already knew the answer, but Reid also knew that the Joker would enjoy explaining.

The Joker pulled over a stool, plopping down beside the assembly line. Reid pressed his cheek against the cool conveyer belt to keep eye contact.

"Did I?"

Reid nodded. "It's why you committed the murders in Rhode Island." He paused, gauging a reaction. "It's why you came back to Gotham afterward. You wanted us here. I know that much, but I don't know why you left the cards."

"For laughs," the Joker said, chuckling. The sound became slightly manic but cut off sharply. He leaned forward, arms outstretched in front of him so that he could pinch Reid's bruised chin between index and thumb. "To keep you busy."

"Is that why you hired Zsasz, too?" Reid asked.

The Joker blinked, surprised, and released his grip on Reid, tweaking the younger man's nose playfully, before sliding his arms beneath his chin, propping himself up. "Ah, Mr. Zsasz," he smirked, "he introduces a little color to the city, doesn't he? All that slicing and posing. Good stuff. Just the right amount of chaos."

"You had those people killed to distract us. You murdered them as a diversion?" Reid's brow wrinkled in confusion. "If you wanted us here in the first place, why would you want us distracted from our jobs?"

"Don't forget the hotel-- blew part if it up, too." The Joker smiled, chiding the agent with a pointing finger. "And not to, umm, _distract_ you, Dr. Reid, but the rest of your team. Need them busy as bees chasing their stingers." His expression darkened. " _Because_ if they're, ah, _busy_ chasing serial killers and cleaning up _your_ ashes, not one of them is going to take the time to realize where you really are. You know what that means, Dr. Reid? We've all the time in the world." The Joker's gaze darkened, his voice low, a growl of loathing, "Ain't it grand?"

***

The hospital seemed quieter than it should have been, its white hallways paced by nurses who worked like shoemaker elves, the whispers of visitors hushed. All the little sounds, of machinery, of buzzing phones, of complaints, all came together as a constant, low hum.

Morgan leaned over the waiting room chair, his elbows propped on his knees, staring a hole into the tile flooring. Whether through instinct or because his ears picked up the sharp note in Hotch's distant voice, he jerked to his feet, taking long strides down the hall. Hotch was turning away from a surgeon, nodding in thought. He met Morgan halfway, his face unreadable.

"Hotch," Morgan breathed, "is J.J…"

Hotch wiped the sleep from his eyes. "The doctors say she's stable at the moment. A few more minutes and the blood loss would have," the sentence ended there. Hotch didn't need to reinforce the what ifs floating through his teammate's mind.

Morgan swept his fingers over his mouth, stilling the sigh of relief at his lips. His dark eyes darted up, though, a different man there, one who had been waiting just beneath the worry.

"What about Zsasz?" he said.

Hotch shook his head once. "Still no word on where he is…"

"But we still think he did this to J.J.?" Morgan's jaw tightened. "We're just going to go with Batman's word on this?"

"Of course not," Hotch replied. He gestured for the other man to follow him into the empty waiting room, out of earshot. "We're going with what we know, though. The Batman was last seen tracking Zsasz, by you no less, Morgan. Batman brought J.J. to the hospital, carried her in himself. Her injuries are consistent with Victor Zsasz's victims."

"But we don't know for sure, do we?" Morgan turned around, thought about punching the door, and managed to push down the violent urge. "Hotch, we've see vigilantes do awful things for the sake of their own form of justice. Batman's unstable. For all we know, Batman could have hurt her himself, made it look like Zsasz's work, just to play out his own fantasies. How the hell did he get out of this hospital without a cop on his ass?"

Hotch's brow lowered in frustration. "Because they were too busy worrying about J.J. bleeding to death to catch him, Derek. That's how!"

"Batman didn't do it."

Morgan hadn't noticed the door opening. Gordon stood there, behind him were Gideon and Prentiss. The three of them had been outside, coordinating a team for the Arkham situation. Morgan hadn't realized they'd reentered the building. Morgan's eyes swept over them, and he noticed that his teammates were watching the commissioner with careful study.

Gordon took a step inside, closer to Hotch and Morgan, looking from one to the other. "Batman," he restated, "didn't hurt your agent. He was trying to save her damned life, for God's sake."

The declaration seemed to seep the strength from him. Gordon took a long breath.

Morgan shook his head in disbelief, but Hotch stopped him from replying. "We can't rule it out at the moment," Hotch said. He shot Morgan a sharp look. "We do know that Batman didn't kidnap J.J., though. While I was speaking to the doctors, Garcia sent me footage from outside the PD. It identified her assailant as Victor Zsasz."

Gordon pushed past the agents, letting the door close behind. "I know the Batman's behavior. Better than you, believe it or not, and don't you pull that profiling card with me, Derek." His voice lowered. "Just this once, just this once can't you trust me? Have I ever given you a reason not to? Zsasz is responsible for what happened, not the Batman. Leave it at that."

"Jim, I just don't get you," Morgan replied, clearly shocked. "We're talking about a man in a mask who threatened your family. Who killed the city's DA in front of your two children. How can you be so sure that Batman wouldn't hurt Agent Jareau?"

"This has gone on too long," Gordon whispered, wincing at the impact of the words. He looked up, his glasses smudged with sweat. "Derek," he said, louder, "I'm not going to have this discussion with you. Not now. Not ever. My city has bigger problems than your vendetta against the Batman. Chase him all you like, but I'm going after Zsasz and the Joker. They're the villain in this piece."

Morgan cocked his head, confused by the commissioner's outburst, but it was Gideon who stepped into Gordon's path, stopping him from exiting the room.

"Batman didn't kill those people, did he, Commissioner Gordon?" Gideon asked. His face wore a mask of tolerance, soft, trusting, looking for the truth in Jim's reaction. Jim's mouth opened at a gape, but he closed it quickly, trying to gather an answer. Gideon didn't wait for him. "None of the evidence," he continued, his voice nearly at a whisper, "none of it actually pointed to Batman. No eye witnesses at the murders, no security footage. Your son never gave a statement. I thought that was odd, too, but I suppose it was hard making a child lie about his hero."

Gordon swallowed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Morgan blinked. "Where you going with this, Gideon?" he asked, surprising himself with his own defensiveness of the commissioner.

Gideon didn't acknowledge the other agent, his focus entirely on the man in front of him. "Harvey Dent killed those people, didn't he?"

Gordon closed his eyes, releasing a pent up breath. "Batman," he managed, "has never denied the charges. He's never attempted to vocalize his innocence."

"That's not much evidence of guilt." Gideon smiled sadly, nodding to himself. "Batman kept quiet for you."

Jim licked his lips and quickly denied the statement. "No," he said. He raised his eyes, looking away from the agent, to the wide-eyed Morgan beside him. "Batman didn't do it for me. He did it for all of us. For the sake of Gotham's soul. The city didn't need their true hero remembered as a disfigured murderer, so Batman took the blame for Dent's crimes."

Morgan shook his head in disbelief.

"It was wrong," Gordon agreed, "but you understand now, don't you, Derek. Batman wouldn't harm your friend. Batman may not be a hero in your eyes, but he saved my family. He saved my little boy's life. Like I said, Batman's not the villain."


	14. Chapter 13: Enlighten Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and the Joker both look for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 13**

**Enlighten Me**

Batman's boot smeared the small puddle of blood on the floor. It belonged to FBI Agent Jennifer Jareau, and it hadn't had the chance to congeal. The caped crusader refused to look down, to take the time to think about whether or not the woman survived once he dropped her off at the emergency room. In truth, he didn't want to think too hard on it; if he did, he might not be able to control his emotions. And control was important. If it lost it…

His fist slammed into Zsasz's face. The jaw cracked against the glove but didn't break. The Batman uncuffed the barely conscious man long enough to pull him off the bed frame before he clicked the restraints into place behind the man's back.

There was a simple reason Batman hadn't called an ambulance to pick up the agent.

Zsasz. Batman wanted to speak to him. Alone. And now he had that chance.

"Wake up, Zsasz," Batman growled, his teeth clenched in a tight grimace. He slammed Zsasz against the wall, the skin-head's skull bouncing off the plaster. "Open your eyes!"

Victor did as he was asked, a scowl across his face. "Look who's back," he hissed. "The man who wears a costume to make himself feel special. Where are the cops, hero? Where are the sirens?"

Batman's fingers tightened on the serial killer's shoulders, slamming him against the plaster once more, and holding him there. "Why did the Joker hire you?"

Zsasz blinked at the vigilante before chuckling. "What, you don't know? You haven't guessed it yet? I think the rumors of your investigative abilities have been greatly exaggerated."

"I found you," Batman reminded him, and yanked him from the wall, throwing him down into the chair. Zsasz stood, darting to the door, but Batman grabbed him by the nape of his neck, squeezing the breath out of him before tossing him back into the seat.

"Why are you working with the Joker?" Batman began again.

Zsasz spat out a loose tooth and rolled his eyes up at the Batman with revile. "Because he paid me," he replied. With a shrug, he added, "and it was good work, Batman, saving lives. Not what you do, of course, I mean really saving lives. Giving them what they need. How is Jennifer, by the way? Is she thanking me yet?"

Batman's grunted and head butted the criminal. Zsasz's head lolled back, fresh blood spilling from his broken nose. Batman reached up, fingers loosely gripping the man around the neck.

"What's the Joker planning?"

Zsasz grinned lazily, the blood rolling down his throat giving his voice a slight gurgle. "Are you going to react this violently every time I answer your questions, Batman?" he asked.

Batman raised his free fist in threat. "The Joker's plans. Now."

"Fine, fine," Zsasz coughed. "A bomb in a mall." Before the vigilante could move, he continued, "Or perhaps nerve gas at the skating arena. Maybe a little poison at a school cafeteria...He's a creative zombie, I'll admit."

The punch went home.

"I don't know!" Zsasz snapped. "I doubt he has a plan. His actions are meaningless, just like his life. Just like your pathetic life. But he has a reason. Is that what you really want to hear, Batman, his reason?"

"Tell me," was Batman's throaty command.

"But what if it's your fault?" Zsasz asked. "Would you still want to know then?"

The Batman's grip loosen slightly. "Why'd the Joker do it? Why'd he have you kidnap Jennifer Jareau?"

"Her?" Zsasz snorted and coughed on his own blood once more. "A dead woman walking. She was a distraction, just like all the rest. The Joker wants something, a little piece of information that the good agents of the Behavior Analysis Unit will be able to provide him with."

Batman didn't believe him. "If he wants information from the agents, why's he killing them off one by one?"

"One by…? Ah," Zsasz raised a brow, "you don't know yet, do you?" The serial killer's eyes rolled back, but he shook himself to consciousness. "I could lie, you know, but it wouldn't be half so entertaining as telling you the truth."

"Speak!" Batman snapped. "Now, Zsasz."

Zsasz grinned. "I imagine that, at this very moment, my employer is having a very interesting conversation with a certain F.B.I. agent. It'll probably be a long talk. With plenty of painful intermissions, as no one has even realized the skinny little zombie is missing."

Batman straightened, surprised. "Spencer Reid is alive?"

He didn't wait for an answer, slamming his fist into Zsasz once more. The man went quiet. Batman cuffed his wrist to the radiator behind the chair. And the Batman was gone, a quick shadow on the night.

***

The waiting room was quiet, still, for all but a second. Morgan felt it pass like a decade. His body tensed, knowing that their conversation wasn't over. For some reason, though, he refused to be the one to break the silence, to state the obvious.

"You know him," Agent Hotchner said.

Gordon turned, brow wrinkled, but not in confusion. It was clear to everyone present who the "him" in question was: Batman.

"You mean who he is without the mask?" Gordon asked. He shook his head.

Gideon stared down at the flooring with enough intensity to melt the tile mortar. "Either you know and you're not telling us, or you don't want to know. And you're not willing to ask the question."

Jim ran his fingers through his hair before answering with a slight, childish shrug. "Suppose you're probably right. I quit asking him long ago, and I think I quit trying to find out on my own before then." He pocketed his hands, nervous. "Honestly? I think the person I see wearing the mask is who he is. Whatever he looks like without the cowl, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that he's good at the job. He gets the bad guys put away, makes it safe on the streets at night. Until some freak with a vision strolls into my city."

"Like the Joker," Emily supplied.

Jim nodded. "Like the Joker." He spoke to Hotchner specifically. "The Batman found the clown last time. Took him down on his own. He can do it again."

Hotch's face had no tell. After a few seconds, he balanced his hands above his belt, elbows wide, authoritative. "Can we assume he has information on the situation at Arkham Asylum?"

"Actually, Hotch--" Prentiss stepped up to Gordon's side, staring up at the unit chief through dark bangs. "Outside, I received a message from Detective Stephens. Stephens was dispatched to Arkham at the first signs of a riot. They've got things under control on the island. There's no evidence that the Joker was ever there. Bomb squad sweeps have come up clean as well. It's looking more like it was an orchestrated diversion."

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest. "Diversion?"

"I know why the Joker was trying to distract us," Gordon said, he moved back, insuring the others were all facing him, before he began again. "The explosion at the hotel felt off, even for the Joker, so I put a rush on processing the remains found. Now I'm thinking that's exactly the kind of thing the Joker was wanting to delay by causing all the ruckus at the Narrows."

"Spit it out, Jim," Morgan said, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"It's not necessarily good news, Derek." Gordon frowned. "I was waiting until I got the lot of you together before breaking it, though. The body we found was the right height and type, but the skull showed three capped molars and a root canal. Dr. Spencer Reid's dental records show he didn't have any work done."

"That wasn't him?" Emily breathed, covering the hint of a smile on her face with one hand, as if she was afraid to be happy. "What are you saying? Who was in Reid's room during the explosion?"

Morgan groaned, rolling his head back in frustration. "The body was planted," he concluded.

Gordon nodded. "That would be my bet. Coroner found knife marks on what remained of the spine. I'd say the unlucky bastard got stabbed in the back and left close to the bomb."

"Reid's still alive out there?" Hotch asked.

Gideon's voice was quiet, foreboding. "That's not what Jim said."

Emily blinked. "What?"

Gideon stared down Gordon. The older agent's face was pale, almost ashen in the poor fluorescent lighting, and Jim's frown twisted, as if he could barely stand to face the other man. "We don't know that he's alive," Gideon explained. "There's no proof that he is. What we do know is that someone set up the explosion in his room. Whoever did that likely wanted us to believe that Reid was dead."

Hotch raised a hand, begging Gideon to cut off there. "Until we find proof of otherwise, we are going to assume that Spencer is alive and in need of help. We're going to treat this like an abduction."

Gordon cocked his head, looking at the agent with sympathy. "You can distance yourself from it, if you want. But we all know exactly who took him. Batman said your Agent Jareau was with Zsasz. There's only one real option left."

Judging from the tightness of her face, Emily fought to hold in her emotions, but rage slipped in when she replied, "The Joker. Yeah. We know."

Morgan winced but shook his head, refusing to concentrate on that bit of knowledge. Reid was alive. And he'd find him. Morgan couldn't afford to not believe it was true. "I got to call Garcia," he muttered, and pushed out of the room. Because while some people prayed to a God, Derek Morgan phoned his own personal goddess and miracle maker, Penelope Garcia.

***

"I'm going to ask questions."

The Joker had decided on the toy tractor. He pushed it with both hands, letting it roll across the worker's table and smack Reid across the temple. Not enough to damage the head, of course. Wouldn't do to start with the head. Gotta work up to that.

"You're going to answer," the mad man continued.

Plus the brain was sorta the point of this little game, wasn't it?

"And if you don't, I'm going to practice using model glue on your more sensitive areas. Understood?"

Reid winced when the squeaking toy hit his pillow of hair again. "You don't have to," he swallowed, barely hearing the threat, "you don't have to ask. I already know the question," he said. He took a nervous breath before adding, "or at least, I know the question that you think you want to ask me."

The Joker paused in his game, dropping the toy onto a cart covered in a rather eclectic display of tools: broken saw blades, glass, sanding blocks, aluminum scrapers. His fingers danced over the glass a moment before he decided against cutting and moved to a metal file, nearly as much fun as the sanding blocks.

"Oh, you probably do," the Joker confessed. He leaned forward, pushing the file against the agent's knuckles. He slid the metal down with a quick movement. Reid cried out at the suddenly pain, quickly tucking his fingers into a fist to hide the nails.

"I could tell you," Reid said, tense, ready for more.

The Joker put down the file, picking a little ball of flesh from its grooves. "Enlighten me," he smiled.

"I know why you wanted the FBI in Gotham," Reid licked his lip, mimicking the Joker without a second thought. "It makes sense really, that it would all have to do with your newest fixation. The Batman, it's all about him, isn't it? He's given you a new path, a new direction." Reid saw the flashing gleam of metal. A blade. He tried not to focus on it, but his breath quickened. He forced himself to go on. "Before, it was just about the chaos, you hoping it would lead you from one want to another. But then you found Batman. A balance. When you first arrived in Gotham, you wanted the city to give you his name, but you changed your mind, didn't you? That's why you threatened to kill any one tried to turn the Batman over."

Reid could feel the knife pressed under his chin, tapping the skin in steady rhythm. "You're faced with a problem, Joker. You don't want the world to know who Batman is, but you need to know. You need to reaffirm that he's a man, a human, who can be broken. Like all the other animals."

"You know me so well," Joker cooed, batting his eyelashes bashfully. He grew serious in a split second, his voice low, his face close to Reid's cheek. "Did you find out?" His voice was lucid and had lost it's high, jester's quality. "Do. You. _Know?_ " he breathed.

Reid paused. The Joker didn't. "You're very good at what you do, aren't you?" the Joker asked, nodding to himself and, with a tight grasp, forcing Reid to nod along with him. "So you must know," he continued, "exactly what I'll do to you if you don't tell me who he is?"

"I know what you'll do to me if I do," Reid replied.

He could feel blood sliding down his chin.

The Joker reached out, running a bead of red between two fingers. "Hmm," the Joker hummed, "I guess you, kiddo, would know which is worse. Being a freak or a corpse?"

Reid's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What I don't understand is why you think I know who the Batman is. Why me?"

The Joker paused, resting his elbow on Reid's chest. For the first time, Reid realized how bruised he was from the van ride. A few kicks too many had left his ribs sensitive to the clown's weight. The Joker seemed to notice the grimace and leaned in further, pretending to think deeply.

"The thing is, kiddo, I don't," he replied, shaking his head in disappointment. "Your room was on a different floor than the rest, easy to get to. I was worried when you weren't there, but then you just strolled along the sidewalk like a little, lost puppy. Not very perceptive for an F.B.I agent," he hissed, and chuckled. "Course, I'm glad it was you, the walking computer, and not the _muscle_ or the old guy. Better odds with you. Plus, you've got a great sense of fashion." For good measure, he plucked the collar of Reid's sweater vest. In an instant, though, the Joker's eyes darkened, the humor sliding away, a gritty, threatening voice returning. "Of course, if you don't know, I'll just have to leave you _grinning_ and cut my way through the rest of your team," he noted. "Who should I start with? The family man? Your boss. Or what about the brunette looker. She seems oh-so eager to please…"

Reid shook his shoulders, dislodging the Joker's elbow. The Joker slipped, laughing at the fall, and then glowered at Reid. "What? Feeling knowledgeable all of a sudden?"

Reid's voice shook. "Ju-just don't hurt them, my team. I can tell you who the Batman is if you just promise not to hurt them. Not to lay a hand on…" the words drifted off.

The Joker was pulling a face, a dramatic frown and squint of the eyes. A mockery of a child who'd dropped his ice cream cone on daddy's leather interior. "Whoops," the Joker voiced, " _might_ be a little late for that, kiddo."

"What do you…" Reid released a soft cry, remembering the text message. The one asking him to meet the team outside the hotel. But none of his team had been there. No, the Joker had been there. Waiting. The text had come from J.J.'s phone. "No," Reid whispered, " _no_ … not J.J…" He forced back the sting at his eyes, hoping the tears wouldn't trail down. "What did you do to her?" he snapped. "Where's Agent Jareau?"

"Me?" the Joker asked, appalled. "Hurt an innocent young woman? Nah, that's not really my cup of tea. But you're a profiler, maybe you can thing of someone you'd enjoy a little play time with a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty."

Reid's eyes widened in fear. "Zsasz."

"See, now, I knew you were smart." The clown puckered his ruddy lips, as if tasting the inside of his mouth. "Now, I could have lied to you, pretended she was off twirling her hair for the cameras, but this," he paused, pointing from himself to Reid, "this is what you refer to as a 'trust building exercise.'"

"You didn't have to hurt her," Reid muttered, lost in his own thoughts, "she didn't do anything to you…"

The Joker's smile widened. "Here comes the part where you say that you'll never tell me what I want to know. I like this part." He leaned in, gently touching the agent's mouth with the flat of his knife.

Reid clinched his eyes shut.

"Shh," the Joker whispered. "It's a simply procedure, really. A few cuts here, a few burns there, and then we just wait for the animal we both know you are on the inside to come to the surface." He grinned, yellowed teeth shining, threatening to consume. "Admit it, Doctor Reid, deep down, you're a freak," he said, "just like _me_."

***

"I can't believe we're doing this."

Agent Hotchner shot Morgan a warning glance for the outburst, but neither man moved to leave the rooftop or to close in on the Commissioner's position. The commissioner stood, his phone put away, hands in the deep pockets of his trench coat and out of the frigid air, waiting as patiently as a saint.

Aaron could feel the frustration radiating off his teammate. Not for the first time since they'd reached the last level of stairs to the rooftop, he wished he'd denied Morgan permission to join him, forced the other agent to stay with Emily, who was keeping a close eye on J.J. or Gideon who was headed back to the Major Crimes Unit to catch the captain up on the Joker situation.

Instead of waiting for Derek to lose his temper, Aaron decided to engage. "Are we sure he'll meet us?" Hotch asked.

Jim cocked his head in thought. "He said he'd be here," Gordon said over one shoulder. His breath came out in a puff. "So he will, unless something more important comes up."

Morgan snorted.

Aaron stayed perfectly stoic. "Does he always meet you on rooftops?"

Gordon chuckled at the question. "No, no," he muttered, "he meets you wherever he wants, but I'm guessing the roof was the safest place for someone who can scale buildings. Especially when cops are chasing him across the ground."

The sound of rustling drew their attention. The Batman stood a few yards away, a black gargoyle, his cape whipping in the moonlight. He straightened, staring at Jim, seemingly ignoring the gun Morgan had drawn to hold tight against his hip. The Batman hesitated only a moment before taking a step forward.

"Victor Zsasz," Batman said, his voice gravelly, "was dropped off in front of your department ten minutes ago."

"Thanks for that," Gordon said with a tip of his head.

Batman didn't reply at first.

Jim sighed, throwing a hand back at the agents in a dismissive wave. "Don't worry about them. Too late for that, Batman, they know I've been in contact with you. Obviously."

"Obviously," Morgan echoed.

Batman shot him a look. "You called," he stated.

"Did Zsasz talk for you?" Gordon asked.

Batman bristled. "He said enough. I checked up on his information before I brought him in. The situation at Arkham is a distraction, as was Zsasz's kidnapping of Agent Jareau." His dark gaze landed on Aaron Hotchner. "Did you know that your agent, Spencer Reid, is still alive?"

Hotch swallowed. Yes, he had known. But hearing it confirmed again made his breath catch in his chest. He hid the emotion, nodding instead. "Dental records proved the body," Hotch replied, "belonged to Samuel Tonks, a former resident of Arkham Asylum."

"And late lackey of your man, the Joker," Morgan added. "Left behind Tonks to look like Reid had died. Zsasz tell you why he'd go to such measures?"

Hotch had another question, though, "Batman, do we have any idea what condition Reid is in?"

Batman was quiet a long moment, sharing a silent conversation with Jim Gordon. "Zsasz has been out of contact with the Joker since your agent was taken. But he implied that Dr. Reid was being questioned by the Joker."

Morgan winced, pain written across his face when he opened his eyes again. Questioned. Morgan had a bad feeling that he knew exactly what that meant. Reid didn't deserve this. Especially after what happened with Hankle. And _after_ Hankle. He shook his head. The why was still unanswered.

Morgan's brow wrinkled, though, when he realized exactly what Batman had said. Dr. Reid. Most people would have went with Agent...Maybe Batman had picked it up from Gordon. Or, maybe Batman himself had been introduced to Reid. Morgan didn't have time to ponder further.

"What does the unsub want to know?" Hotch said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Morgan caught it; back to using "unsub". Hotch was distancing himself, the best armor he had at the moment.

Batman took a step closer to the agents. There was a silent threat to his looming presence. "The Joker took him because your team profiled me. He believes Dr. Reid knows who I am."

Morgan's gaze narrowed. "And does he?"

"If Dr. Reid doesn't give an answer…" Batman cut off for only a moment, his constant frown somehow hardening into a deeper grimace "…the Joker will kill him."


	15. Chapter 14: Find the Monster Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Reid finally pushed the Joker too far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 14**

**Find the Monster Inside**

The vat was out of date technology, the likes of which were probably still in use in the countries of the world that provided cheap toys for American retailers. It was a taper necked cauldron, intended to be manually stirred, and it swung on an iron support, easily tilted one way or the other to fill molds.

Reid wasn't sure what had originally been heated in it, but he knew what was currently inside. Two dozen eyeless, unpainted doll bodies worth of melted, flesh toned plastic, threatening to gum up in minutes if it wasn't slid into the oven again.

Seemed plenty hot to Reid.

The spout tipped forward, another drop landing on Spencer's bare stomach, a snap sizzle as it hit two inches from his navel. Reid clenched his teeth, but the cry left him, nevertheless. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Reid almost laughed at that thought. How horribly wrong had his life gone that melted plastic dripping down onto his body wasn't _so bad_?

Reid released the tension in his jaw, felt a tiny, sharp fragment against his tongue. A chip of enamel from one of his teeth.

"You know, it'll be our little secret."

The voice was higher-pitched. Pleased with itself. "See, kiddo, you're right, I don't want the world to know who Batman is. But I want to know." The Joker's voice lowered slightly, loosing some of its charm. "As you so thoughtfully pointed out, I _need_ to know. And, unfortunately for you, Dr. Reid, the answer's in your noggin." Reid felt a fist tap his skull. "Now," the Joker whispered, as if afraid the lackeys standing outside might be listening in, "if you decide not to tell me his name, I'll have to kill you, to keep our little secret _secret_."

Reid redirected his blurred gaze, finding the Joker had righted the tilted cauldron and pushed it back. The clown leaned down next to the belt, pulling the red welding gloves off his hands. Reid didn't reply to the threat. He only shook slightly at the chill inside the building breezing over his cut open shirt, over the bare burns on his stomach.

"You still with me?" the Joker asked, overly-dramatic concern tugging his grin into a pout. "Don't check-out yet, Dr. Reid… I've still got plenty of _steam_ left."

"I'm here," Reid managed, his head lolling back. The lights blinded him, and he recalled why he had turned his head to the side in the first place. "I'm here," he repeated, louder.

Because pretending he wasn't there, that exhaustion had taken him, would only lead to a bored unsub and a quicker death. And the team needed more time if they were going to get the job done. If.

The Joker sighed, looking over his shoulder to give the cauldron a forlorn glance. "I know guys who swear by fire, but me," he paused, pulling free a short blade from his wrist, as if performing an illusion, "I'm more of knife man."

"I hear," he began again, "that it has something to do with my sexual performance, but I gotta say, that sounds a little hooky. I've formed my own opinion on the matter." He tapped Reid's cheek with the flat of the three inch blade, his gaze lowered darkly. "Want to know why I use a knife, doc?"

"It's slower than a gun," Reid replied without hesitation, "more time to enjoy the connection between you and your victim. It's more personal." He stopped, chewing his lip for a moment. The Joker's silence put a fresh sheen of sweat on his cold skin. Reid repressed the shiver. "I don't believe it's sexual, either, not in your case. Your victims are diverse in race and gender and the wounds are more often caused by slicing motions instead of stabs, which would be a more likely substitute for the sexual act."

The factory was eerily quiet a moment, then the almost unrecognizable sound of a forced laugh echoed over the machinery. _Hee hee hee, ho ho, hee ha…_ It trailed off. The knife lifted and found Reid's mouth.

The Joker leaned close, his free hand reaching up to clench onto Reid's jaw. Reid squirmed against the bruising grip, trying to jerk his head out of the murderer's tight grasp.

"Open," the Joker hissed, "open up…There you go, kiddo. Eat your peas. _Good boy…_ "

The knife slipped pass Reid's parted lips, and the agent stilled out of shock and fear. Reid sucked in a shallow breath, afraid to move, his eyes wide in panic as the Joker slid the knife tight against the inside of his cheek.

Reid tasted metal pooling against his teeth and a subtle sting across his bleeding gums. It wouldn't do to beg, to plead for the man to stop; nevertheless, a whimper made it past his teeth.

"I do like a personal approach," the Joker hissed, "I really do. That's why I look into the people I'm working with. Find the skeletons in their closets, their weaknesses, which family members will be easiest to blow to smithereens, which co-workers are more susceptible to having their throats slit by serial killers…"

Reid shook at the thought, his eyes narrow in fury. The Joker moved his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes crushing the papers on the floor. Papers that told him about the agent's degrees, his IQ. And more? Reid swallowed the blood in his mouth, his adam's apple bouncing.

The Joker had noticed the movement, and his grinned was yellow stained, predator like. Animalistic. "Funny thing. It was a little hard to find out about Spencer Reid's loving DNA donors. And then, I get the best news. It looks like boy genius's mother is at the Bennington Sanitarium." His breath was hot against Reid's stinging cheek. "Now, I'm not a _genius_ myself, but paranoid schizophrenia, that's genetic, isn't it?"

The Joker tightened his fingers around Reid's chin and forced the agent's head to nod along. The clown mimicked the movement. "That's what I thought," he said, "so, you might say, you have a certain inclination for madness." The Joker tilted his head forward, casting his dark eyes in shadows. "Now, I'm just thinking out-loud here, but I bet, it would take just a few _teeny_ scars on the outside, a few _little_ mutilations _here_ and _there_ , to make the ones on the inside show. If I were to, say, put a _smile_ on that face, it might just do the trick."

The knife dug into the soft flesh, sending a new stream of blood trickling down Reid's throat, but the blade paused there, in wait.

The Joker licked his own lip, collecting the wetness at the corner of his mouth. "Dr. Reid, did I ever tell you how I got these scars?"

***

Surely not.

Surely Hotch had been kidding…right? Garcia snorted at the very idea. Hotch, kid? Never--well, not on a case where one of their family had been hurt...And another was still missing. Garcia stared at the phone box as if it might attack her, and she managed not to lose the eye contact, even as she released a calming breath and repeated her most recent mantra.

"Reid's okay. The team will find him. Reid's ok…" she whispered. The manta had changed only slightly over the past two hours, the name from J.J. to Reid, the _her_ to _him_. Granted, her state of mind was considerably better than it had been when she'd thought her little family had lost their youngest, but it was still bad. Way bad. This wasn't fair, not at all, that two of the sweetest people she knew were currently… "Reid's okay. The team _will_ find him…"

She had work to do, she really did, but she couldn't. Not while she was waiting for the phone call. Nervousness made itself known in the form of her second favorite fuzzy pen bouncing against a scrap of paper.

"This is ridiculous," Garcia finally voiced. Her fluffy blond and black highlighted ponytail bounced when she nodded in agreement with herself.

There was absolutely no way Aaron Hotchner had just told her to expect a phone call from a masked vigilante. From _Batman._ And it was an absolute impossibility that Derek Morgan had verified the information over their boss's shoulder. Except Hotch _had_ called. And he had asked her to "help" the Batman in any way possible.

It was nuts.

The buzz of her direct line nearly knocked to her to the floor. Garcia took a breath and a shaky, blue-tipped fingernail tapped the line open. She opened her mouth, and for possibly the first time in her career, she was lost for words.

"Uhhh."

"Penelope Garcia?" a voice asked. It was low, raspy, and Garcia hated to admit a little sexy, if she could get past the throat cancer patient resemblance. "I was told this was your direct line."

"Present and accounted for, and this is indeed the office of all obtainable knowledge," she chirped, and made a face. So not the time. "Is this, umm, Mr…Batman?"

She listened carefully, hearing the sound of an engine, or maybe neighboring traffic. He was on the move, that much she was certain of. Her heart fluttered a little. Did that mean he knew something about Reid? "Sir?" she prompted.

"Yes," he finally replied. "Agent Hotchner contacted you?"

"And told me to service you in any way necessary--" Penelope slapped her forehead, leaving a pen mark behind. She made a face, flustered. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Not that I have a problem with men in body armor or tights. I mean, I really commend you on the costume thing because it…because it really shows how secure you are in your masculinity. I for one--"

Batman cut off the babble, not a hint of annoyance or of humor in his voice. Garcia hoped that meant he hadn't heard a word of it. "I have a few leads on where the Joker might be holding Dr. Reid, but I'm afraid I might not have the time to check them all, even with the help of the agents."

Garcia nodded, face lined, serious. "What do you need me to do?"

"There might be a way to narrow down the location," Batman continued. "It hadn't occurred to me earlier but Victor Zsasz mentioned being in contact with the Joker. Dr. Reid's cell phone wasn't found at the location of his kidnapping. It could have been in the hotel room but…"

Garcia threw up a hand in a flutter, her fingers already landing on the keyboard. "But he might have still had the cell phone on him, and the unsub might have found it convenient to use. It's a long shot…"

"Can you use this to narrow down the area?" Batman asked.

Garcia smirked, tapping "enter." She lowered her gaze at the computer. "Oh, sweet cheeks, if you have to ask, you don't know me very well…If the Joker used Reid's phone, we're in business."

Penelope thought the sound on the other end was a sigh. Of relief. She took a moment to blink at that, not expecting the masked man to be invested enough for such an emotional display. Before she could question it, though, his gravelly voice reappeared in her ear.

"I'll be in touch."

And he cut off his phone.

***

The Joker's knife was tight against the inside of Reid's cheek, the madman's fingertips brushing lips. "See, kiddo, I had a sick Mom, too. She was a little on the unstable side." His tongue flickered out, licking his scar, and his gaze bounced, an excitement there, in their wet reflection. "One day, Mommy dearest was having one of her fits…"

His voice trailed off when his gaze landed on Reid's face. The Joker's smile hardened into a thin line of red paint. He pulled the knife free, nicking the corner of Reid's mouth, but leaving the cheek undamaged. A tear of blood slid down the young man's face, a mocking, temporary, resemblance of the scars puckering his captor's jaw. But Reid didn't seem to notice that the threatening blade had been taken away. He stared up at the Joker, brow wrinkled in sympathy.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" the Joker snapped, shaking the man's face with his free hand before his finger's released him and found a wad of his open shirt to hold on to instead. "What? You don't like my story?"

"I thought," Reid said, and he swallowed in hesitation. His teeth were stained red when he opened his mouth again. "At least two of the people in our records have reported back the stories you tell about your scars. Each was significantly different, and I ventured that you changed the story on purpose depending on your victim. It fit the profile. The stories would help establish your instability, make you appear more unpredictable than you truly are. I assumed the changing story was to allow you to force a connection between you and your victim, to increase their state of fear. And you probably do tell it to your victims for all of those reasons, but there's another reason, too. It's a form of transference. You become a different person in each story and apply your own imagined tragedy, not because it's easier to lie… but because you don't know the truth."

Reid paused, shivered against the coldness of the room. "You can't remember how you got those scars, can you?"

Reid was expecting, from the glower on the Joker's face, a violent reaction, but instead, the Joker only shook his head in exasperation. "You know, kiddo, if you didn't want to hear the story, all you had to do was say so." He released the agent's shirt, patting out the wrinkles, bringing the two sides together, and dropped the small knife to the floor. It clattered against the cement. "Then we could have skipped straight to this part."

The sting of his bare hand left Reid seeing stars. A second slap followed immediately, and the Joker gripped his collar, jerking him up as far as the restraints would allow.

"Tell me who the Batman is," he hissed, spraying spittle over Reid's face. "Or I gut you," he added, somewhat more cheerfully, "like a fish."

"That's not what you really want to know," Reid insisted. "You're obsessed with Batman, but that's not the reason you took me."

"Tell me who the Batman is," the Joker repeated, and dropped him, letting his head bounce against the conveyor belt.

"You don't remember why you're a monster," Reid continued, "that's why you assume that everyone is a monster, deep down inside. You know that you couldn't have been what you are now, back before the scars. You know that you must have appeared normal, just like everyone else, and then something horrible happened to you. And it let the evil loose." He paused, his breath rapid as a wave of adrenaline pumped through him, urging him to get away. But the restraints were still tight.

The Joker hopped onto the metal lip running alongside the table and threw one leg over the agent, straddling his burnt stomach. Reid gasped at the sudden weight, loosing his train of thought when the pain sent stars across his vision. Reid coughed, spitting up blood from his damaged gums.

"You're good, kiddo," Joker growled, "got me all figured out, don't you?" He leaned forward, putting more pressure on Reid's bruised ribcage. The Joker ran a finger over the line of blood at the corner Reid's mouth, painting the agent's cheeks with a faint, matching smile. "If you're so good, you should be able to tell me what I need to know, shouldn't you? Give me his name, doc, and I'll make sure you're even better at your job…"

Reid shook his head from side to side. "That's not what you want to know."

The Joker gripped Reid by his hair, his thumbnails digging into the scalp. "Did ya see Dent, kiddo, after I got through with him? _Half_ a face. Pretty interesting effect, visually." The Joker ground his teeth, talking them through them in a rage. "Good work, huh, and can you believe that was entirely unintentional? Be hard top that one. But I bet I can." His fingers tangled, the thumbs pressing down hard on the skin of the hairline. Reid screamed out when they cut into the tender flesh. Wetness rolled over his temples, but instead of letting go, the Joker drug his thumbnails down another centimeter, tearing at the skin. "How about a man without a face? That's something to write home about, isn't it? A real _show stopper_. F.B.I agent loses face." The Joker paused, laughing at his own joke. "What do you think, kiddo? That the type of monster you want to be?"

Reid bit the torn inside of his mouth, his own fingernails digging into his palms. He tried not to cry out again. If he did, he'd lose his breath, and with the weight atop him, he'd never regain it.

"Not everyone's a monster inside," he gasped. "Some people just aren't capable of being as evil as you are."

The Joker lifted Reid's head and slammed it down again before pulling his thumbnails free from the sheath of skin. They came away bright, stained. "Tell me who Batman is!" he snapped. "Tell me!"

Reid stared up at him, meeting his eye. "I won't."

"Tell me," the Joker growled, "tell me! Tell me who he is! TELL ME WHO THE JOKER IS!"

The clown paused, stunned. His lips moved, wordlessly, in an almost comical display of confusion. The Joker slipped off of Reid's body and put his back to the agent, his hands held up to cover his face. A short, stilted sob escaped.

When he turned around, his head was lowered. Reid stared at him in shock, but couldn't see the other man's face. The Joker's hair hung down, a mess of green, and shadowed his expression. Where the light did grace him, Reid could see his own blood smeared against the man's chin and jaw.

"Joker?" Reid asked.

The villain didn't reply. Instead, he reached over, picking up a knife from the worker's table. It was longer than the other, a good six inches with a handle nearly as long, and it glistened in the harsh factory lighting.

Reid struggled against his bindings. "Don't," he breathed, "don't or you'll never know…"

The Joker held the blade up with both hands, its sharp point two feet above Reid's chest. But, still, the clown didn't raise his head. "Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice soft, distant, "wanna see a magic trick?"

He plunged the knife down into the agent's sternum.


	16. Chapter 15: Just for Laughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to cut a little deeper to find the humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Chapter 15**

**Just For Laughs**

The laugh was high-pitched, echoing off the walls of the building, heard outside by the waiting men in clown masks. And it was _genuine._

No forced _Hee_ or pronounced _Ha_. A laugh, pure and simple.

Reid gasped, the pain in his chest leaving him blinking away tears, but he shook with relief because the pain was still there. _He_ was still there. Reid tilted his head up to see that his shirt had fallen open once more and a long welt showed at his sternum, its forming bruise blending in with the dull purple blotches on the surrounding skin. Reid released a sigh of relief, but his confusion was still apparent in his wrinkled brow and his dropped jaw.

The Joker patted him on the shoulder, unable to stop the laughter from shaking his body. "You should have seen," he cackled, manic, "your face."

To illustrate, he raised the knife and dove it into his own palm. The blade disappeared. And didn't reappear out the other side.

A retractable knife.

Reid sobbed at the realization. The sob turned into a laugh, and he convulsed to the point of hysterics. Laughing. Laughing with death. Laughing with his murderous abductor. Reid wondered if this was real. Or was he in some sort of coma, laying in a hospital somewhere, imagining the strange encounter?

A fit of coughing finally brought the agent's chuckles to a trailing stop. Reid released another rough hack, his head lolled to one side, where the clown was finally beginning to calm himself down.

"This is actually about the Batman," Reid breathed. "You weren't lying."

The Joker sat down the retractable, false knife and picked up a rusted, flathead screwdriver in its place. Its crystal plastic handle had the name "Dave" etched into the side. Reid had no doubt in his mind that this weapon was very real, and at least two decades old.

"No one ever listens the first time," the Joker finally said. "Still too sane to answer questions. Gotta introduce a little _crazy_ into their world before they spill," he explained. He waggled the screwdriver in front of Reid's face. "The next one, though, it's gonna hurt."

Reid closed his eyes, knowing the threat wasn't empty. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care quite as much. Was this what it felt like to be crazy? Had he reached it yet? "You don't really care who he is, you just wanted us here to profile him." He opened his eyes, gazing into the Joker's grin, as if it were a shark's. "Unsubs make the best profilers," he said, quoting an old friend. "You want to clear the Batman's name, don't you?"

"Me?" the Joker said, patting his chest in awe, "Help the Bat? Kiddo, you're off your rocker."

Nevertheless, the clown's smile was unwavering.

"Because you can't stand the thought," Reid swallowed, "of the world believing the Batman broke on his own. You want to be the one to make him into a monster, you want to be the one to force his hand."

The Joker tapped Reid's neck with the screwdriver before leaning forward, his stale breath against Reid's ear. "Because we're all the same, on the inside," he hissed.

Reid felt nauseous. He knew it was the blood he'd ingested, but a part of him wondered if it wasn't intuition. Without a doubt, he knew what this madman, this clown who prided himself on his unpredictability, was planning for the agent. All the pieces were falling into place, and time was running out.

"I like you, kiddo," the Joker continued. "You've got a great sense of, uh, _humor_."

Another piece.

"That's why I'm going to do you, how would our friend Mr. Zsasz put it? Umm, a little favor. Yeah, I'm going to do you a favor, kiddo. I'll get the information from someone else." The Joker pulled away, looking down at the agent. His smile was gone, replaced by a frown, as if the words didn't amuse him any longer. "Someone more deserving. You, _you…_ I'm going to save you from yourself." He leaned in closer, pushing the sharp flathead against Reid's jugular. "You'll never become a monster. Like me."

Reid saw a shadow above the lights, something tall, perched on the room-sized oven near the building's top row of windows. Spencer blinked lazily, his vision blurred around the edges, but he didn't want to call attention to the form. Instead he swallowed, wincing when the tool was pressed more tightly against his skin. He looked up at the Joker.

"I'll never be a monster," Reid said, confident.

The Joker still didn't smile. A look of shock crossed his face when the ping of a gunshot rang out, echoing in the darkness outside the factory. It was followed by the sound of an automatic weapon being fired in rapid succession. But the criminal didn't have time to question it. A black gloved hand dove out, grabbing the Joker by the neck and tossing him away from the conveyor belt. The screwdriver landed on Reid's chest, rolling over his torso.

Batman stared down at the agent a split second, a black, expressionless statue, before turning his attention back to the clown.

***

The swat team was under fire.

Morgan swore under his breath, carefully tucking himself behind the abandoned metal cargo bed of a tractor trailer. The fading red words announcing Marcus Toys Inc. floated above his crouched form. The rest of the team was still at the SUVs. Morgan stared back at them, checking for injuries, but it appeared that only the SWAT officer first fired upon was down, a red stain on the ice below his knee. His colleagues were dragging him behind their vehicle.

Derek knew he should wait. There was no question about it, there were more men on the way, and if officers weren't already inside the building, they would be soon enough. The gunfire ceased for a split second and Morgan could hear it, coming from inside: laughter. Maniacal, teasing, laughter.

He wasn't waiting. Morgan signaled for the team to cover him and hoped they got the message. His feet steadied themselves on the slick ground, and then he took off, letting his long legs do the thinking for him as he crossed the distance of the space between the storage unit and the shadow of the main doors.

Weapons fired, but from behind him, toward the right face of the building, where a half dozen criminals were holding territory.

The door was unlocked. Somehow, Morgan couldn't find that surprising. He slipped in, quietly, just in time to see the Joker make a run at the Batman with a knife. Before Morgan could shout out, the vigilante had thrown up an arm, blocking the movement, and throwing the Joker back with a sweep of his arm.

Then Morgan saw Reid on the belt, and made a quick decision. He crossed the length of the factory, eyes focused on his fellow agent.

Reid heard the footsteps and rolled his head back at a painful angle, looking for the source. "Morgan!"

The younger agent's voice was hoarse, and Morgan had no doubt as to why. The factory was as frigid as the outside world and Reid had been stripped of his coat, his shirt and vest cut away and hanging at his arms.

Morgan paused, registering the marks across Reid's stomach, the developing bruises along his thin torso. And the blood at his face. "Reid," Morgan shook off the shock. Forced himself to look away, "just hold on, man, I've got you."

Reid smiled tightly, and the expression looked pained. "Hurry," he said.

Morgan yanked at the strap across his body, holding his arms in place. Three quick tugs, and it was pulled free. He moved down to the feet.

"Watch out!" Reid shouted.

Morgan turned just in time to see a clown mask above, gloved hands raising pistol. He kicked out, knocking the weapon away, and moved in to restrain the Joker's man. Reid sat up, wincing, and pulled his feet out the loosened restraints.

***

The world around him spun. Unable to stay still, Reid fell off the belt, landing noisily onto the floor with a yelp. Disoriented, he scrambled to find something to hide behind. Without realizing it, he found himself behind the table the Joker had been using. It was knocked onto its side, the "tools" the Joker had wanted to use, had used, were slung out across the floor, joining the litter of scattered papers. A book was laying amongst the mess as well, spine broken in the fall. Reid felt a bubble of hysterics form in his throat when he read the title, recognized the author's name. David Rossi. One of the founding members of the BAU.

Reid managed to brush off the thoughts stirring in his mind, instead reaching out, seeing double, but his fingers found something familiar. It wasn't the book. Beneath the pages sat his Colt 17, slung out of its belt holster. The gun felt heavy against his palm, but he lifted it, nevertheless.

"You know, I'm doing you a favor," the Joker snapped.

Reid stiffened at the words, the hairs on his neck standing, but he noticed the clown was no where near him. Reid peaked out from behind the table and saw that the statement had been directed at the…

"Batman," Reid hissed, too low to be heard.

The vigilante was pinned under the weight of the tilted cauldron, his stomach against the floor as he scrambled to push the vat off of his body. But the Joker leaned down onto it to hold it into place and pulled out a knife from his ankle strap. His wide grin was directed entirely at the Batman, but the vigilante was looking elsewhere, at Dr. Reid.

Reid wasn't sure when his legs had managed to stand, but he found himself straight, his arm out in front of him, the weapon trained on the Joker.

"Spencer, don't!" Batman growled.

Reid didn't hear him. He pulled the trigger.

***

Reid leaned his head against the pillow, but he didn't close his eyes. Didn't dare. Because that meant looking away. The curtain had been pulled back so that he could see her silhouette, the spill of her long blond hair over the covers. He still couldn't believe that J.J. was alive. Not by any act of mercy, not by any moment of chance, but because someone had been there to rescue her. Batman.

Reid's smile was soft, sad. She hadn't awoken since he'd arrived. And the doctors had only managed to keep him in the hospital because of the promise that she would probably wake sometime in the night. Reid didn't like it here. It smelled too much like the sanitarium, and there was the constant offer of medications for the pain. Something to make it seem like it wasn't real.

No.

He refused to take them, even if it meant staying awake even longer in an attempt to get comfortable. Out of habit, he scratched at the IV planted in the crook of his arm, reminding himself that it was just for his dehydration, nothing more.

"She'll make it," a voice said.

Reid tried not to jump but failed. He rolled his head to the other side. Batman was standing a few feet away. Reid wasn't sure if the man had used the door or the window, and he somehow doubted he'd find out any time soon.

"Morgan just stepped out," Reid said. "Snack. I don't think he's eaten over the past thirty hours."

The Batman acknowledged the statement with silence before taking a step forward. "You should be asleep," the Batman noted.

Reid heard the vigilante's voice raise slightly. It reminded him more of Bruce Wayne's voice. Reid knew that the slip was no slip at all, but a statement all unto itself: _I know you know._

"I don't want to," Reid admitted, shamefully looking down at the covers. "Not sure what I'll see when I close my eyes." He cleared his throat, wishing he could take back the admission. "I know why you're here," he said, "you want to know if I can…stay quiet." Reid looked up sharply. "I won't tell. No one needs to know."

Batman didn't speak for a moment, his eyes on the female agent in the next bed. He looked away from her. "You could have killed the Joker," he finally said. "But you didn't."

Reid shook his head. He'd taken the shot, the bullet hitting the Joker above his left ankle. The distraction had been just enough for the Batman to pull himself free before SWAT flooded the factory.

"I've been told I have bad aim," Reid countered.

Batman tilted his head to once side, studying the agent. "You did what was right," he concluded, "even though you thought the Joker was responsible for killing your friend. You spared him."

For a life locked in Arkham. "Did I?" Reid voiced, softly.

"You'll do the right thing again," Batman said.

Reid nodded, unsure, "Thank you. For saving me, and J.J."

"Penelope Garcia," Batman replied. At Reid's raised brow, he continued, "I wouldn't have found you without her." He hesitated only a moment. "I'm going to hold on to her number."

As tender as his cheek was, Reid couldn't help the smile on his face. Somehow, he doubted that the Joker was aware of the Batman's sense of humor. He wondered, briefly, if Batman had spoken to Hotch yet. Between the hardened gaze and the masked personality, the two seemed more alike than Reid would have expected.

"Still, thank you." Reid forced down the grin, becoming somber once again. "If you ever do break, though, I'll be back. To arrest you."

Batman nodded once. "I'll hold you to that," he replied, the gravel in his voice returning. "Go to sleep, Dr. Reid."

Reid wasn't sure why, but he closed his eyes, drifting off in minutes under the watchful eye of the Bat.


	17. Epilogue: The Man who Laughed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always knew they'd meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.

**Epilogue:**

**The Man Who Laughed**

_To think that the spectre you see is an illusion does not rob him of his terrors: it simply adds the further terror of madness itself - and then on top of that the horrible surmise that those whom the rest call mad have, all along, been the only people who see the world as it really is. -C.S. LEWIS, Perelandra_

His eyes cast down, Reid straightened the papers into the gray folder sitting on the table. He'd collected less data than he'd expected, in all honestly, but the trip wouldn't be a complete disappointment, as another interview was set up for the next day. And, thankfully, he wouldn't be going at that one alone.

"You need a haircut."

Reid chose not to acknowledge the comment.

What had he been thinking anyhow? The rest of his team had warned him, had given him that look, offered their services, and yet he'd argued until they'd given up their stances. And why had he put himself through this? All for a few rambles. All for the identity and cause of death of one homeless victim whose body would likely never be recovered.

"You asked me here," Reid reminded the man across from him.

The Joker bristled, leaning as far forward as his restraints would allow. His eyes managed to catch the shadows of the otherwise brightly lit room. There was day-old paint still on his face, an allowed ritual that Dr. Reid was not entirely convinced was for the best. Granted, he wasn't the Joker's personal care-taker, so he had no real say in the matter…

"I'm wounded, kiddo," the Joker teased, "I thought we were friends. Friends visit friends. My new doctor - she's a real cutie, by the way, reminds me a little of that blue eyed doll Mr. Zsasz _played_ with - she said it would be good for me to see a familiar, uh, face. Help me, you know, comprehend all the _naughty_ things I've done."

Reid chose not to comment on the status of their relationship. If he was to conduct a later interview with the Joker, it might be necessary to not push him away. Still, there was strange part of him in agreement. They knew each other as well as friends, didn't they? It was an eerie thought. One Reid pushed from his mind immediately.

"Turn it off."

Reid glanced up in surprise.

The Joker tilted his head to the side, indicating the camera videotaping their session. "Turn. It. Off."

Reid looked over his shoulder at the guard posted there. There were two orderlies waiting outside the door as well. Reid felt a familiar shiver run over his skin, but he stood, switching off the recorder. He didn't need it; with his memory, he could quote whatever the Joker said, word for word.

"I _know_ , Dr. Reid." The Joker chuckled, but his voice remained low. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret."

Spencer leaned forward and swallowed deeply. Out of habit he pushed back his hair, his finger touching the half-moon scar against the hairline. There was a matching one on the opposite side. Nothing disfiguring. Nothing noticeable. But a clear reminder. It send a chill down his spine.

"You know who Batman is?" Reid asked.

The Joker smiled darkly, wrinkles sprouting at his eyes and cheeks, up from his puckered scars. Reid was certain the criminal did know Batman's identity, somehow. It was locked away, deep within his fractured mind. But, Reid quickly realized that he'd asked the wrong question. The Joker wasn't currently referring to the Batman.

"I'm becoming a better profiler, kiddo," the Joker hissed, "you've really, uh, _inspired_ me. Want to know what I can tell you about, well, you?"

Reid kept his eyes on the Joker's restraints. "I think we've talked about me before, haven't we?" he said, nearly at a whisper.

The Joker rolled his head back against the soft supports at his neck. "You dream at night. About looking into a mirror," he said. Though his voice was playful, engaging, Reid's body tensed. "You look into it and you see my face instead of yours. But the funny thing is, the _really_ funny part is, it's not a nightmare...Can't be, 'cause you wake up laughing every single time."

Spencer pushed his chair back, picking up the folder. "You're wrong," he stated, and turned to walk away.

The Joker laughed. "You're a hoot, kiddo," the clown called.

Reid didn't pause, instead signaling that the guard could buzz for the door. "Hurry," he insisted.

"Gotta say, I've missed our _guy time_ ," the Joker said, his voice louder, "bet you have, too. Don't worry, doc, I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again real soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to have a short sequel out by this summer. So keep an eye out for ARKHAM MINDS. Thank you for reading.


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